4

11 A.M.

The ivy-clad granite front of Tudor Towers loomed in front of them, and a damp sea wind gusted in their faces as they stepped down from the minibus. Now they were outside, they could see that the hotel was built right at the top of a slanting cliff. The door facing them was at ground level, but if you peered round the edge you saw that there were at least two more floors below, further down the slope towards the sea.

The inside of Tudor Towers did even less to calm their nerves than its Gothic exterior. The stark and airless reception was just bare tiles with no furniture apart from a large desk (which could well have been mistaken for a sarcophagus). Propped up in a chair behind it was what the four friends thought might be the training dummy used by apprentice undertakers at embalming class, or maybe even an Egyptian mummy borrowed from a museum, but in an inexplicably modern T-shirt. Fortunately it moved and turned out to be only the receptionist. Not that there’s anything ‘only’ about receptionists – but you know what I mean.

Corridors led off from reception in three directions – left, right and straight ahead. The walls were a greying white, coldly lit like the lighting you might find in the freezer room at the back of a dodgy supermarket where the meat is kept, the marble floor causing their footsteps to pop and echo in odd directions as they all filed in.

‘They reopened this place just for us. Isn’t that nice?’ said Cynthia breezily, consulting a plan of the hotel fixed to the wall and clearly trying to get her bearings.

‘The real question,’ whispered Zack ominously, ‘is why was it ever closed?’

Jonny bit his lower lip theatrically, pulling a face. It was a very good point, though, he thought, his eyes travelling down one of the endless, deserted, bleach-white-tiled corridors that led off reception.

‘OK, so the adults arrived yesterday,’ he murmured, ‘but where is everyone now?’

‘They’ll be here,’ Sophie said confidently, deliberately keeping cool, but involuntarily feeling for the letter in her pocket once again.

‘Now, everyone, line up so this adorable man can get you booked in and give you your keys, please,’ Cynthia called. The junior magicians all shuffled into a rough sort of queue in front of arguably the least adorable man in the universe.

Deanna was first in line, followed reluctantly by Sophie. Deanna immediately sprang into Deanna-doing-a-trick mode, which to the uninformed observer could easily have looked like Deanna-having-a-fit mode: she leaped forward, pirouetted, shimmied her shoulders, rolled in a somersault and landed on both feet in front of the desk while at the same time reaching out for the massive rotary-dial phone that took up a large chunk of the desktop.

‘I’ll just …’ she began brightly. The receptionist looked at her.

‘Quickly use …’ she said with a little less optimism. The receptionist didn’t blink.

‘This?’ she squeaked in a small voice. The lack of sympathy in the receptionist’s eyes could have dissolved galaxies. Deanna took her hand off the receiver as the receptionist silently handed over a pair of keys to room 208. Jonny and Zack grinned. Wow, this guy certainly knew how to put someone in their place!

Next up were Hugo, Salisbury and Charlie, who snatched the keys to the Presidential Suite as Hugo bleated out a smorgasbord of room requirements. The receptionist stared back like a velociraptor trying to work out which one of them to attack first, before getting bored and beckoning over those next in line.

Mayhew and Jackson forced a weak smile, while Max sucked happily on a lollipop he had produced from nowhere (his bag). He glanced up at his new roommates, flicked his wrist and a pair of lollipops appeared out of thin air (his bag again). Mayhew and Jackson glanced at each other, then down their noses at the sweets, both keeping their hands firmly behind their backs.

The queue trundled forward … until finally it was Zack, Jonny and Alex’s turn.

‘Names?’ the receptionist droned as they came up to the desk.

‘Oh Lordy!’ Jonny screamed a little too loudly. ‘You’re wearing our T-shirt!’

The receptionist glanced down. He was indeed sporting a Young Magicians T-shirt – something the four young people in question had had no idea existed until now.

The rainbow-coloured words Young Magicians were bursting through a cloud of stars above an outline of four unmistakable silhouettes.

‘Yes,’ he said as though he were talking about different types of cabbage, ‘I’m your number-one fan. Names?’

Zack frowned.

‘So you’re our number-one fan, but you don’t know our …’

‘Where did you even get that thing?’ Sophie demanded.

‘And why did no one tell us?’ Jonny added.

‘Oh … dear … yes …’ Cynthia looked embarrassed. ‘You are just a tiddly bit famous in the magic world, I’m afraid, and some people want to, um …’

‘Cash in on us?’ Zack finished.

‘Yes,’ said the receptionist, holding out room key 207 and rolling his eyes, like being part of a fanbase was a huge inconvenience.

‘But people can’t do that!’ Alex protested in a shocked voice.

‘I think you’ll find they can, dear, and have,’ Cynthia apologized. ‘They’re not using your faces, just an artist’s impression of your outlines. I mean those silhouettes, legally speaking, could be anyone.’

‘Plus, this one’s home-made,’ butted in the receptionist, before realizing how creepy that sounded and continuing with the justification: ‘I have a degree in clip art.’

‘Anyway, we must get on,’ said Cynthia, handing the boys their key and leaving the receptionist as starstruck as a positively disinterested woodlouse meeting Justin Bieber for the fifteenth time. ‘President Pickle will be formally opening the convention in the ballroom at eleven o’clock, and we mustn’t be late because, because …’ Cynthia hesitated. ‘Well, you know what he’s like!’ She gave a short, sharp laugh before catching herself, her face suddenly darkening again. ‘So, once you’ve found your rooms, get to the ballroom, quick as you can.’

‘There’s that look again,’ whispered Sophie to the others as they headed off. ‘I wonder what’s bothering her?’

‘I know what’s bothering me,’ Zack muttered. ‘That T-shirt! What else are people selling with us on?’

‘Don’t we want to wait for your roommate?’ Jonny teased. Sophie grabbed his sleeve and frogmarched him grinning down the corridor, heading away from reception. They stayed close together, hoping to avoid Deanna, who was now in hot pursuit, struggling noisily through the constricting corridor with her many suitcases like she was travelling with an entourage but had accidentally gone and packed them all by mistake.

‘OI! Somebody help!’ she shouted, which – for all it was irritating – certainly made the surroundings feel a little less intimidating, her petulant voice piercing through the sterile atmosphere like a cheerleading team arriving in Transylvania.

‘What room are we in again?’ said Jonny as they approached a lift at the end of the corridor, which looked like it hadn’t been used since the 1950s and smelled rather like that too. On either side of it, staircases disappeared up to the next floor.

‘Two-oh-seven,’ answered Zack, entering the lift and scanning the various buttons, whose numbers shone out in a deep bloodcurdling red, as if they had been penned by Dracula on one of his days off. (Or maybe that should be nights off? Discuss!) He reached out to press the button for the second floor.

‘Anyone would think you’re trying to get away from me!’ Deanna squealed behind them. She had caught up and now grabbed the metal scissor gate to prevent it from shutting, just in time from her point of view and just a moment too soon from the others’.

‘Oh no, not at all!’ Sophie managed to stammer, somewhat startled and spotting some of the old wildness back in Deanna’s eyes. Her neck was sticking out towards them like a disgruntled turkey. ‘I just … haven’t seen these three in ages and …’

‘Yes, well, you haven’t seen me either!’ retorted Deanna, still not quite getting it. ‘Anyway,’ she continued, ‘all my bags aren’t going to fit in there, so …?’ She looked pointedly at Zack, Jonny and Alex in turn like they were the ones who needed to do something about this.

‘Wow!’ muttered Jonny, almost impressed by the sureness and audacity of the girl. Part of being a good magician was showing total, unswerving self-confidence and Deanna had that part down pat. It was just the actual, you know, magic part of being a magician she struggled with.

‘Should we …?’ Jonny extended one of his long fingers back out of the lift.

‘It’s fine. Go,’ Sophie said eventually, half to herself and half to the others. ‘I’ll just give you a knock in five minutes, OK?’

Zack, Jonny and Alex dutifully nodded, filing out of the lift like a well-whipped chorus line. ‘Five minutes exactly!’ whispered Sophie as Jonny brushed past, not wishing to prolong her ‘catch-up’ with Deanna any longer than necessary.

‘Please let me press the button, please let me press the button, please let me press the button!’ squealed Deanna, piling in with her bags like this was the first time she’d ever been in a lift, or indeed the first time she’d ever pressed a button (at least since exiting the train doors earlier that morning).

‘We’ll see you in a bit then, roomies!’ said Jonny playfully as Sophie and her pained expression vanished behind the clattering scissor gates.

‘You’ll pay for that later!’ Zack teased. He imagined Sophie getting her own back by trying out some devious new hypnotic ploy when Jonny was least suspecting it. ‘A hypnotist scorned and all that!’

‘So … what do you think is bothering Cynthia?’ asked Alex thoughtfully as the three of them began to lug their bags towards the barren-looking stairwell.

‘I’ve no idea,’ said Zack honestly. Now he was coming down from his irritation at the unauthorized YM^TM merchandise, he had to admit that the question was tweaking his antennae for mystery. ‘But something tells me it won’t be long before we find out!’

‘Excellent!’ said Jonny, clapping his friend on the back, clearly hungry for another new adventure. ‘Right then.’ He put his foot on the first set of steps and raised his head up towards the countless landings. ‘Race you to the top?’

Jonny bolted like a startled gazelle, leaping up the stairs three at a time, swinging his bag in one hand and using the other on the banister to hoist himself round the tight corners. Zack and Alex looked at each other in amusement, not moving a muscle.

‘Let’s just let him win,’ said Zack quietly as Jonny called out a running commentary of his progress from above.

Alex nodded, smiling. Wow, it felt good to be back!

‘JONNY WINS AGAIN! WHOOP WHOOP! THREE CHEERS FOR – Er, guys?’

Sophie knocked on the boys’ bedroom door approximately four minutes and forty-five seconds later, having been granted early release from a distracted Deanna, who was now scouting their rather monastic bedroom for plug sockets in which she planned to charge her hair straighteners, her ‘Shimmer and Shine Float & Sing Palace Friends’ thing – whatever that wasfn1 – along with her ‘Num Noms Lip Gloss Truck Playset’fn2 which Sophie was sure didn’t actually require charging, but she wasn’t going to start asking questions now.

From there, the Young Magicians – glad to be a full pack again – navigated their way back down to reception, which appeared even more stark now that it was completely empty and silent, almost as if the pale floor had sucked up all possible sound along with any living occupants, apart from the somewhat dead-looking receptionist. For a hotel with a society convention going on, the place was eerily empty.

‘OK …’ Sophie looked at the different passages leading off in different directions. ‘Cynthia said we need to get to the ballroom.’

‘We could ask this guy?’ Zack sauntered back over to the reception desk. The receptionist sat there, still in his T-shirt (which Zack scowled at), perfectly motionless, gazing blankly into the distance and totally failing to acknowledge the fact that Zack even existed.

Zack cleared his throat. ‘Erm? Hello?’

The receptionist’s eyes were still fixed on something only he could see in the distance. Zack tentatively waved a hand in front of him, wondering if he really might be seeing his first-ever dead body.

The man’s head suddenly swivelled to face him.

‘Just thinking happy thoughts,’ he said, the same way a doctor might tell you that you only had twelve hours to live. ‘Can I help you?’

‘Er …’ Zack began.

‘Over here, Zack!’ Sophie suddenly called, and Zack sidled gratefully away.

Sophie had found the hotel floor plan fixed to the wall. She saw immediately that you couldn’t just follow your nose in Tudor Towers. The three upper floors, with the bedrooms, were comparatively easy. But the ground floor was a maze of offices and function rooms and places that weren’t highlighted, presumably because the guests weren’t meant to go there. Not that that would stop the Young Magicians!

Then a voice billowed out from somewhere unseen. ‘Will you please stop telling me what I can and can’t do, dear!’

It was a voice the four of them hadn’t heard in a good while. A voice that took them straight back to their adventures six months ago. A voice filled with a strange mix of pomposity and cowardice.

‘President Pickle!’ whispered Alex, half excited, half scared. For even though the President of the Magic Circle had a lot to thank them for (restoring the state of the club’s finances and getting them well in with the Queen, no less!) President Pickle had acted ambivalently to the news. As if this had somehow happened by chance and were to be temporarily celebrated – yes – but then quickly forgotten about to make way for more interesting and grander things that ideally didn’t have a bunch of interfering kiddies at the centre of them.

‘Hide!’

Zack leaped back into the middle of reception, before realizing there wasn’t really any place to hide. Except for the large, tomblike reception desk, of course, but that had …

He blinked in surprise. The receptionist had vanished. Oh well, what the hell!

He made a dash for the desk. ‘Come on!’ The others glanced at each other, then piled in behind.

It wasn’t like Zack felt they necessarily needed to hide; they were – after all – just looking for the ballroom. But then President Pickle had a way of making all children feel as if they were up to no good and, as far as Zack was concerned, that was all the prompting he needed. They’d lived up to President Pickle’s somewhat skewed expectations thus far!

‘I just wish you’d get some help, that’s all,’ said Cynthia’s voice. The words tumbled out between little sniffs. The four looked at each other as they crouched uncomfortably behind the marble desk, Jonny folding his limbs into the space where the desk chair would usually go to prevent himself from being seen.

‘Please stop all this incessant mollycoddling, dear. I’ll be perfectly fine – we know everyone here. It will all blow over, I’m sure!’

They heard President Pickle stomp into the reception area and stop to catch his breath.

‘But look …’ Cynthia went on. They heard the sound of rustling paper. ‘Have you seen the latest one? It only arrived this morning. You can see what it says …’

‘Silly sausage scaremongering, that’s all!’ President Pickle snapped, followed by the unmistakable noise of paper being ripped up.

‘To hell with all of it!’ he announced. They heard him turn to go, footsteps squeaking on the tiled floor.

‘Just let me see if they can do some digging,’ Cynthia begged, following after him. ‘They’re as good a set of detectives as any!’

Zack gawped as the others looked at each other excitedly. Was Cynthia talking about them?

‘Absolutely. No. Way!’ shouted President Pickle, like the tolling of a grandfather clock. ‘Even if it means never eating anything again, I won’t turn to a bunch of … children for help. The whole idea is preposterous!’

Yep, thought Zack. They certainly are talking about us. They had been right to hide after all!

‘But you will still be going ahead with … everything we discussed?’ pressed Cynthia.

‘Yes, yes. Now come along – we’re going to be late!’

The four of them stayed low, waiting for President Pickle and Cynthia to disappear down one of the austere corridors. The reverberations of their heartbeats made them physically buzz with excitement.

‘What on earth do you think that was all about?’ said Sophie in a hushed voice, slowly peering over the edge of the desk and making sure the coast was completely clear.

‘I don’t know,’ said Zack, ‘but it sounds like President Pickle is in some kind of trouble and needs our help. Or that’s what Cynthia thinks anyway.’

‘Which he’s blatantly delighted about!’ added Jonny sarcastically, vaulting over the desk like a giant frog and giving a mock bow in appreciation of his efforts.

‘Do you think … he’s in danger?’ asked Alex, who certainly wasn’t the greatest fan of President Pickle, but didn’t like the idea of harm befalling anyone. And what exactly did they mean by still going ahead with everything?

‘Who knows?’ said Zack. ‘But it certainly explains why Cynthia’s been looking so downbeat.’

Eight squares of torn-up paper were being blown by one of the hotel’s many draughts across the floor. He scooped the pieces up in a couple of swift movements.

‘Now let’s see what this was all about …’

Zack crossed over to the desk and laid the bits out.

‘That might be, um, private?’ Alex ventured, though he crowded forward with the others to make out the writing on the paper jigsaw that Zack was deftly assembling.

‘Cynthia obviously thinks it’s something we can help with, so …’

Zack laid the final piece in place and they all leaned forward to read it.

It was eight lines of handwritten text.

Straight down the side.

See the old has-been?

Why does he still go on?

A sad relic of better days?

Enjoy the memories!

I doubt they will last much longer.

Deal yourself out, or we will.

Easy! See you at the banquet.

The four friends stared at it.

Sophie felt a shudder of spine-tingling excitement run through her. The words were simple, pretty even, like some old cheeky limerick, but there was an unnerving, malevolent tone behind the second-to-last line: Deal yourself out … or we will. What did that mean?

Zack tilted his head on one side to see if it read any differently the other way. It didn’t.

‘OK,’ Jonny said, ‘so someone’s calling him a has-been and a relic … but that’s – you know – kind of fair enough. It’s hardly mega-evil. What’s got Cynthia all het up?’

‘I don’t know, but we can worry about it while we walk,’ Sophie said suddenly, checking her watch, ‘because if we don’t get a shift on we’re going to be late.’ She quickly scanned the plan of the hotel, tapping her fingers against the wall, and traced a course with her finger, instantly committing it to memory. ‘OK, this way to the ballroom.’

Zack stuffed the bits of torn-up mystery into his pocket as the four of them trotted down the same corridor that President Pickle and Cynthia had taken. It ran along the edge of the building, and the rain outside began to lash against the thin windows so heavily that Alex could swear it was leaving pockmarks in the glass.

‘Nice weather you have up here in t’north!’ joked Jonny, overtaking Sophie with a grin.

‘Almost as nice as you!’ she said, catching his arm in a friendly way. ‘This way!’

They swung left and plunged down a second corridor, right into the very heart of the building. Alex worked out that they must be behind the lift and the stairwell.

‘Down here!’

They reached a small set of stairs and sped down to the level below. They had entered the part of Tudor Towers that was built further down the cliff. Even though they’d only descended one floor, Zack could swear the air felt danker. At the bottom they dashed down a further corridor, which appeared to widen out with every step.

How had Sophie managed to memorize the route? Alex was starting to grow a little breathless and was remembering the time they’d all got lost inside the cavernous Magic Circle library when they were last together.

‘We’re here!’ said Sophie, slowing to a stop as they came out into a wide lobby and approached a wall studded with several sets of double doors. She struck a pose and gestured at the doors with both hands, like it was the denouement of a trick, which – given the amount Sophie had had to memorize in such a short space of time – it kind of was.

Jonny grabbed a set of handles and pulled them apart, causing a gust of warm, musty air to waft back into their faces along with a wall of chatter.

‘Ah,’ said Jonny, smiling. ‘So this is where everyone is!’

The four Young Magicians had to squint as their eyes adjusted to the dazzling white light that made the ballroom shine like the inside of an industrial oven. It was a room of impressive proportions. Zack noted the distinct lack of windows on all sides and figured it was surrounded by other small rooms. At the opposite end was a raised stage, much wider than it was deep, whose maroon curtains drooped apologetically, not quite meeting in the middle. A large, oppressive, gold-crested lectern had been placed in front of the gap, almost like it was trying to make up for the lack of fabric.

In between the doors and the stage, the floor was filled with tables covered with white tablecloths, each one with four or five seats round it. The ceiling boasted a network of medium-sized chandeliers, all of which seemed to be switched to their maximum setting, making Alex feel a bit like they were stepping inside a giant microwave.

Sophie swept her eyes over the crowd and felt for the letter in her pocket again. Was its sender here? And would Sophie have the nerve to say hello if she was? Her heart was beginning to pound again.

She spotted several of the council members milling about at the front, all looking rather self-important as they busybodied between the hundreds of members present, handing out name badges and convention brochures and giving everyone polite nods of recognition, which really just hinted at acknowledgements of their own assumed superiority.

Zack suddenly got the feeling he was being stared at. It was the way two people were hovering in the corner of his vision. He glanced over at them quickly, but in another flicker of movement they chose that exact moment to look away.

Jonny smiled at the murmuring sea of grey hair beginning to take their seats. The only splash of colour came from the silk handkerchiefs being sporadically produced off to one side by Steve and Jane, who applauded and guffawed like they’d not performed this and a hundred other similar effects today a thousand billion times already – and seemingly all for their own amusement.

‘Wow,’ said Zack, spotting Cynthia and President Pickle up ahead, briskly navigating their way forward and inefficiently zigzagging between several rows of tables, ‘President Pickle sure looks … different!’

It was true. Not that any of the four were particularly prone to passing judgement on anyone’s appearance, but now they got their first proper look at him, without the reception desk in the way, the transformation from the last time they had seen the man was drastic.

Gone were the portly belly and quivering jowls that wobbled and creased every time he spoke. Gone were the rosy red face and big rubbery lips that caused him to look like an inflated schoolboy. Instead, presented before them was a shell of the man they once knew. It was as if someone had taken his vital organs and a huge amount of guts, cast them to one side and then tried to (unsuccessfully) readjust his skin and bones to fit the new shape. But you could see the dramatic change in President Pickle’s drawn expression too, as if he carried with him a new heaviness – despite the weight loss. Like the change hadn’t come about in a positive or natural way, but some kind of sacrifice had had to be made.

‘Is he … unwell, do you think?’ asked Alex, who could see the other members blatantly wondering the same thing as President Pickle journeyed towards the lectern at the front, their faces all brimming with concern.

‘I mean, he wasn’t that well before, to be fair,’ said Jonny, remembering President Pickle’s love of rich foods and fine wines, and not quite deciding which of the two versions was the more healthy-looking. ‘Didn’t he mention something about not eating?’

Cynthia had now turned to face the partly seated crowd, casting her eyes about the ballroom, hunting for the junior members who peppered the scene like flecks of accidental tissue left in a dark load of washing. Hugo and his flock didn’t stand out much, blending in perfectly with the gloomy suited members’ attire like they’d all got the same invite to the same funeral. Cynthia finally caught the eyes of the four at the back and gestured vigorously for them to take a seat.

‘This way,’ said Sophie, spotting a table with four empty spaces at the back of the room. Among the general chatty hubbub, as they made their way over, Zack’s ears suddenly pricked up as he caught the phrase ‘Young Magicians –’ And then again, from another direction. He whipped his head round and stared about him. Was he imagining it, or were people now nudging each other and pointing them out?

At least he couldn’t see anyone wearing another of those ghastly T-shirts …

Sophie suddenly stopped dead in her tracks.

‘Whoa … Everything all right?’ said Jonny, colliding with her melodramatically.

‘It’s her!’ said Sophie, her voice cracking slightly and the colour draining from her face, which would have been a cause for concern – especially for someone as stoic as Sophie – save for the simultaneous smirk creeping up both of her cheeks. ‘It’s Belinda Vine!’

‘Who?’

‘Belinda Vine! I mean, of course I knew she’d be here, but actually seeing her …’

‘Who’s Belinda Vine?’ Zack asked casually. Sophie stared at him.

‘Who’s Belinda Vine? Didn’t you check the programme before we came?’

Zack shrugged.

‘I’d have come to this even if it was a non-stop weekend of Deanna trying out new routines, providing it meant we all got to be back together. So this Belinda’s pretty cool then?’

Sophie shook her head helplessly. ‘She’s a legend!’

Belinda Vine! It wasn’t just that she was clever, talented, striking in her own distinctive way … On the other side of the Atlantic, Belinda had pulled herself way up from her humble origins and blazed her own trail in the male world of American magic – something that Sophie admired greatly! And, as if it weren’t enough being a lone female in this community of mostly geriatric men, her performances were always impeccable and frequently floored even the most astute audiences. She’d even been known to fool some of the best minds in magic at conventions across the world with her mind-reading act, which was so brilliantly devised and so beautifully performed and so tantalizingly impossible that it could almost have passed as the real thing. Indeed, despite watching and re-watching countless performances of Belinda’s act on the web, Sophie still had no clue how she achieved some of her mental miracles.

Then, just a year or so ago, Belinda Vine had announced that she was crossing the Atlantic: ‘My work is done back home and a girl needs fresh challenges to stay on top. Look out, men (and women!) of Europe, Belinda is on her way!’ And here she was, just fifty metres away at the other side of the room, laughing heartily, looking stunning in her perfectly fitted red dress, her long ginger hair exploding from the top of her head and waving gracefully down her back – almost like she was underwater – as she swung her head to and fro to take in the room, perfectly at ease.

‘And she wrote to me,’ Sophie went on. She pulled the letter from her pocket. ‘Care of the Magic Circle. She said she’d heard of me and was looking forward to meeting me …’

‘Cool!’ Jonny was actually impressed. ‘So what’s the problem?’

‘Now I’ll actually have to meet her!’ whispered Sophie as they continued towards their table, her legs feeling a little squishy.

‘You know, I didn’t have you down as the starstruck type,’ said Jonny, enjoying the moment, not used to seeing Sophie so overcome.

‘Why’s that?’ said Sophie, as quick as a flash, and sounding a bit more like her usual self. ‘Because I didn’t react like this when I first met you?’

Zack and Jonny laughed loudly as they finally sat down, causing a few of the ageing members at the tables in front to turn round – or at least try, their necks creaking slowly – as they cast sour looks at the four, shaking their heads like broken nodding dogs.

‘Thanks so much for having us!’ Zack said genially to the disapproving audience members, with an elfish twinkle in his eye. Ah, it was good to be back.

Alex elbowed him lightly as he spotted Cynthia glaring over at them from the front, biting her lower lip, clearly desperate for her juniors to be on their best behaviour and not to attract any unwanted attention. Or at least none of the naughty negative kind.

So, for once, Zack obeyed. They’d made it this far – making mischief could wait, he reasoned. Well, for the time being, at least! He straightened himself up, straining his neck over the hundreds of bobbing heads patiently waiting for things to begin.

A spritely middle-aged fellow, dressed like a teacher who was trying a bit too hard to be cool – jeans, trainers, a T-shirt and baseball cap (hugely unnecessary!) – got up on the stage and gambolled over to the lectern. He was wearing a gigantic sticky label that named him ERIC DIVA.

‘Well, what a pleasure, what a treat, what a delight, what fun it is to see you all!’ he crooned into the microphone. ‘People from every nation, gathered here together!’

Sophie glanced around. Every nation? Really? she thought. Despite some promising ‘initiatives’ (as Council liked to refer to them) at the Magic Circle, the society was still as infamous for its lack of diversity as it was for its lack of gender equality. Sophie sat back in her seat, bemused.

A few of the councillors cheered, shooting glances at the rest of the membership who all joined in on autopilot, many of them not really knowing what was going on.

‘And obviously just to say, on a more personal note, how proud it makes me feel – as this year’s convention organizer – to have so many youngsters in the crowd!’

‘So many is a bit of an exaggeration, isn’t it?’ said Jonny in a low voice, trying not to move his lips. Cynthia gave the man a polite nod, probably wishing for him not to dwell on the matter, aware that – for the vast majority of members – the news of juniors being present (apart from the famous Young Magicians, who to some minds were like honorary old members) was probably as unwelcome as a cat at a dog’s hen do. And maybe even in some cases the first time certain members were receiving the news at all. In spite of this, Eric Diva continued.

‘Indeed, let it be sung from the rafters that these junior members are the future of magic and we welcome you, one and all. Especially the famous four at the back!’

He suddenly gave a jubilant wave to Zack, Sophie, Jonny and Alex, causing the entire room to effectively swivel on its axis as everyone twisted and turned – some more noisily than others, all at random speeds – to get a good look at the Young Magicians, who now sat looking and feeling a little like rare pieces at an exhibition, not quite knowing how to react. Even Jonny, with all his casual bravado, only managed the smallest of cursory waves. The room slowly heaved its way back to facing the front as Eric Diva continued to beam at the four friends.

‘Big, big, big, big, big fan!’ he mouthed, and brought his hands together towards his chest, forming a heart shape, holding it there for a disconcerting amount of time and causing Jonny to let out a giggle like a tickled toddler – this guy was a hoot!

Sophie was withholding judgement. Who exactly was Eric Diva? He certainly wasn’t present at the Magic Circle six months ago. And now, just like that, he was in a position of responsibility. That must have taken some serious greasing …

‘Anyway,’ continued Eric, addressing the whole room once more, ‘you’ll be seeing a lot more of me over the course of the weekend, I’m sure, so please don’t be afraid to say hello!’

‘Well, I’m already a bit afraid!’ Zack joked quietly, flashing the others a grin.

‘Anyway, let’s get things formally under way, shall we? Ladies, gentlemen, youngsters! Please welcome your president and mine: Mr President Edmund Pickle!’

The council members at the front started a long, sonorous handclap. The other members began to join in, Cynthia motioning for all the juniors to do the same, like she was slowly egging them on. The clapping began to intensify, the pace quickening dramatically as President Pickle slowly clambered up on to the stage and headed towards the lectern, his body still somewhat tense and so unbelievably pinched.

He finally faced the front, causing some of the more bootlicking members to stand and bow needlessly as he nodded at them all, though still with a whiff of uncharacteristic nervousness, Sophie noted. Slowly he raised and lowered his arm like he was conducting some giant orchestra. The crowd began to diminuendo into silence. Like the eerie calm before an execution …

President Pickle looked out over the crowd, his eyes roaming from person to person before sweeping towards the back of the room, darting up into the corners of the ceiling and then back towards the front, checking out the wings either side before focusing on the lectern he was now leaning on rigidly, gripping the sides like a terrified vicar at a pulpit. He seemed to mumble something to himself before summoning the reserve to stand up straight, pushing out his chest like a well-groomed yet evidently malnourished pheasant, a touch of the regal returning to him.

Ah yes, thought Zack, trying to work out exactly what was troubling the man just by looking at him, this is a bit more like the President Pickle we know and – ahem – love.

‘Welcome to the Annual Convention! A place for us to discuss ideas, to learn, grow and consolidate as a society, to celebrate our rich and bountiful history and to stamp out any bad blood. Most importantly of all, we are gathered this weekend to elect the officials who will carry us into a new and prosperous magical year. I hope you are all looking forward to it as much as me …’

He trailed off, confronted with the horrible possibility that maybe he was right, and that everyone was looking forward to it as much as him, which was to say not at all. Not in the slightest. Not this weekend.

‘Anyhow …’ he murmured, trying to find his groove. ‘Another year, another convention! How time flies. It doesn’t seem like five minutes ago that I … that I …’ The man suddenly lost his train of thought, fumbling for a piece of paper in his inner jacket pocket before righting himself again and remembering what he was saying. ‘That I stood here last time.’

A few of the members grumbled a strange appreciation of how quickly the years seemed to pass by nowadays, like a whole twelve months could go by unnoticed by just taking the briefest of afternoon naps … and then it was back to the Annual Convention!

‘Now a few of you will have noticed my – er – my change in appearance,’ said President Pickle, clearly trying to sound upbeat. ‘And some of you have even been so kind as to point it out and ask after my health, so I ought to set matters straight …’

The four sat up, wondering if they would be given a clue as to what was so evidently unsettling the man. They had heard him insisting to Cynthia that everything was fine. But now?

‘So let me assure you that it’s only a temporary state of affairs while … Well, no one needs to know about that!’

He cast a look over at Cynthia, who was massaging her hands so vigorously that Zack could swear he could see steam rising from them.

‘It does mean, sadly, that I’m off the booze, and the food. Which is … well, a huge shame. I hear this place does a marvellously gloopy and exquisitely sticky sticky toffee pudding! But no, not for me this weekend, thank you very much!’

He laughed awkwardly, before trailing off. Was it Jonny’s imagination or was President Pickle starting to get emotional?

‘I can’t even remember the last time I was allowed sticky toffee pudding.’ President Pickle’s eyes seemed to mist over, like he was in some strange trance, his mouth starting to droop, heavy with saliva. ‘Lettuce is what I get now. Scrubbed within an inch of its life, all pale green and tasteless, wilting and silly. Not even allowed to cover it in bacon and cheese just in case someone has p–’

Cynthia suddenly coughed loudly enough to snap President Pickle out of his food dream or whatever this was. He mumbled something to himself again, clearly in two minds about … something. Sophie looked over at Cynthia, who had now locked eyes with her husband, clearly trying to impress something upon him, nodding tightly, her hands held closely together over her neck and chin. If it wasn’t for Cynthia’s manner, Sophie could still have believed that this was just President Pickle feeling sorry for himself over a touch of indigestion: he could – after all – raise self-pity to a new art form. But, with Cynthia behaving as she was, Sophie knew something was desperately awry.

President Pickle stared back at his wife, chewing his lower lip, evidently completely at sea and still incomprehensibly, mindlessly hungry. He cleared his throat again, unfolding the piece of paper he’d taken from his pocket, pushing down on the creases to stop it from closing, taking his time … making a point.

‘So … as many of you are aware, I have been president of this magical society for nearly a quarter of a century.’

A few of the crowd began to applaud, but President Pickle silenced them with a waft of his hand, like Dumbledore turning out a light.

‘Many people have joked – often inappropriately – that you get less than that for murder. The truth is, twenty-five years is such a long time that that joke no longer applies any more.’

‘Sounds like he’s saying goodbye?’ said Zack. ‘Or giving in to something.’

‘Or someone,’ offered Sophie, her mind ticking.

The thought of President Pickle giving in to anything that he didn’t want to didn’t really compute. And when he did – like letting younger members in – then he certainly wasn’t one to make a public affair out of it.

‘No way!’ said Jonny, clapping his hand over his mouth to stop the sound from coming out too loudly.

Alex shifted in his seat as he craned his neck even higher. Was President Pickle really about to announce his retirement? For the Magic Circle that would be like … like … He couldn’t imagine what it would be like. A bit like the Queen announcing she was stepping down, maybe, and handing her crown over to one of the corgis.

Sophie spotted Eric Diva poised like a concerned parent off to the side, biting his fingernails. What on earth was going on?

President Pickle continued. ‘So it would seem that there are some who believe twenty-five years is more than long enough … That I should now fizzle out and away like some defunct firework and pass into the realm of past-presidency.’

He took another long deep breath while staring down at the paper still held firmly between his fingers.

‘And I agree – to a certain extent. It has been quite an impressive innings, even if I do say so myself …’ The man paused for an obscenely long amount of time. ‘However.’ The whole room suddenly shifted as one. ‘I will not be bullied, beaten or broken. I will not bow down and beg. I am the President of the Magic Circle and it is I and only I who decides when my time is up. Do you hear me?’

President Pickle had started to bellow as the blood began to drain from Cynthia’s face. No! No, no, no! Hadn’t those horrible letters made it very clear that he must step down? That if he didn’t go ahead with it, there would be dire consequences? But President Pickle was now on a roll, cheered on by the growing army of supporters in the crowd who were now whooping loudly, like he was leading them into battle.

‘Once a president, always a president, that’s what I say! Anything else just takes the pickle!’

Zack, Sophie, Jonny and Alex looked at each other, not really knowing what to say. Evidently Cynthia had expected her husband to be announcing his retirement from the Magic Circle’s top job. And, by the looks of it, President Pickle had been partway towards making that decision too. But then – for whatever reason – something had changed his mind. He was here to stay. Or at least not going to go down without a fight!

But you could sense it a mile off, Zack thought. Despite the seeming overwhelming support and overzealous cheering, dotted somewhere between the slight glances between council members and the loud coughs emanating from the crowd – though a lot of that could arguably have been the flu – was the whiff of disapproval and disappointment. The thought that perhaps, had the man stepped down, something or someone better might come along. But who exactly that person or persons might be was – as yet – unclear. And what exactly did the president mean by saying he wouldn’t be bullied? Was someone forcing his hand? Zack rubbed his left eyebrow thoughtfully.

The clapping took a second to spread from the stuffy Pickle fanbase, who were evidently delighted by what they were hearing, to the corners of the room, like a semi-toxic virus, growing and mutating all the time … Some choosing to whoop, whistle and cheer if their vocal cords could still hack it, others resorting to a wheezy moaning noise, which could easily have been mistaken for disapproval if it weren’t for the beaming smiles the sound was emanating from.

But there was one thing about the whole affair that was abundantly clear, and the four Young Magicians at the back of the room clocked it a mile off. One person in the room was the very last to start showing his appreciation, even though he was trying so desperately hard to prove otherwise.

Eric Diva.

‘Anyway, there you go, nothing to see here!’ blathered President Pickle into the microphone, putting an end to the commotion all of a sudden. ‘I now declare the sixty-eighth Annual Magic Circle Convention open – have fun!’

He magicked his infamous gavel out of his reedy midriff and slammed it down on to the gold lectern with such force that sparks sprayed out, as if to prove beyond any reasonable doubt that there was still life in the old boy yet. President Pickle chanced a fleeting glance at his dear wife, who had now turned the colour of wallpaper paste. He grinned at her sheepishly: a strained, haphazard, oh-hell-what-have-I-just-done? type of grin.

Indeed, President Pickle, thought an ominous somebody in the crowd. What. Have. You. Just. Done?