1

Such a bright morning, the sky blue, the sun in one of its energetic moods.

Hector sat at a table at the Bakery and looked around the square. There was a breeze about, which now and then got itself flustered. The flags at the Pennybank Store curled themselves together, and a passerby reached up and unravelled them. A couple of kids crossed the square, carrying a kite between them. From his table, Hector could see Clover Mackie drinking coffee on her porch, hair flying sideways then settling again.

The Twicklehams had called him the night before and asked if he could meet them here this morning, just before they left.

They had something of ‘vital import’ to tell him, they’d said, and they’d summoned the Mayor to meet them too. She should hear this too, they’d said.

Seemed like a waste of everybody’s time, but Hector figured they deserved a little leeway, what with how the town had treated them.

He was early, but he’d brought some paperwork to do while he ate his pastry and waited. He reached for his leather satchel—there was Derrin’s drawing in the plastic window; it made him sad to see it—and drew out a pile of papers.

The breeze wanted to take them, of course, so he put his elbow on them hard and reached for the sugar dispenser to weigh them down. For good measure, he added the salt and pepper shakers.

Somewhere down the pile of papers, a yellowing edge was poking out. What was that? He slid it out.

To the Good Sheriff of Bonfire in the Picturesque Province of the Farms, it began, and right away, he remembered.

It was that fax from Gwent Cwlyd in Olde Quainte. The missing child with the whistling mother. He’d meant to give it to Jimmy, but of course Jimmy had been sick since that night, so it had stayed in his satchel.

He turned it over ready to put away again, but as he did, the concluding lines caught his eyes.

Why should this sweet child have gone? they said. Was it a Green that has took her? For haven’t we had the most unlikely influx of Greens in the last year or two—as to a tree in the springtime? But Greens are not known to steal children! Or was it a ferocious Wandering Hostile? For haven’t they, too, traversed our town of late? But what cause would THEY have to kill or take a little child—and one so dear as this?

Ah, it broke your heart, the things that happened to people.

(Not to mention the hopelessness of Olde Quainte law enforcement.)

Hector closed his satchel, thinking he’d drop the report over at Jimmy’s that afternoon. Seemed to him that Jimmy had been sick for long enough by now. Although, if he started saying that this missing girl had been whisked across to the World, well, Hector would send Jimmy back to bed.

The clock tower struck eight. Things were picking up in the square. Rows of oranges were appearing in the stands out the front of the Pennybank Store. High-school kids, on vacation, were wandering towards the Candy Shoppe and the Bakery too.

The breeze was lively again; it knocked over the menu on Hector’s table, and smack-smack-smack, the menus at the next three tables too.

There was a rattling sound and a woman emerged from the staircase alongside the Bakery itself. It was Olivia Hattoway, the grade-school teacher. Of course. She lived above the Bakery.

She was dragging two suitcases, one in each hand, but paused to smile at Hector.

‘Good morning, Sheriff! Just taking these to my car.’

‘Nice day for a road trip,’ Hector replied. ‘And it’s good of you to take the Twicklehams along for the ride. Need any help with the luggage there?’ He stood from the table, but Olivia smiled and resumed her walk.

‘Easy!’ she said. ‘See, they roll? And I’ll enjoy the Twicklehams’ company, so it’s not “good” of me at all! See you in a couple of weeks!’

He watched her cross the square.

There were voices at the next table along, and he realised it was Elliot’s friends—Cody, Shelby, Nikki, Gabe—settling down with their coffees and pastries.

He watched them a moment, and listened. Seemed that Kala had sent Cody a postcard from her boarding school, and they all wanted to hear her news. The Sheriff half-listened, then he glanced at his satchel. There was Derrin’s drawing again—the sad-faced man and woman all in green—and he couldn’t stop himself.

‘You kids,’ he said, and they turned to him. ‘You proud of yourselves?’ His voice grew blustery. ‘Your shenanigans and whatnot with the Twicklehams? They’re leaving town this morning, you realise that? You went and broke them, and I’ll tell you something, it just about breaks my heart.’

They stared, wide-eyed. They looked so young suddenly. Nikki pulled at her lower lip. Gabe rubbed at his hair. Cody looked down, drumming his fingers quickly on the table.

‘Yeah, we heard,’ said Shelby. She scowled and put her hands in her pockets. ‘We feel bad about it. But the thing is, Sheriff, what else could we do?’

There was quiet.

He was ready to storm again, to get into a frenzy along with the wind, but then there was a kind of shrug inside him, and he leaned back in his chair and sighed.

He knew what Shelby meant. It was that helplessness you feel when there’s nothing you can do to comfort a friend.

Those kids had all wanted to go along with Elliot on his trips to the Purple caverns, but Elliot had refused. He’d let them do this, though. He might never have said it expressly but they would have guessed: he’d wanted them to scare off the Twicklehams, to get them out of his dad’s shop.

So what else could they do?

Across the square, Hector could see Olivia Hattoway piling her suitcases into the trunk of her car. From the opposite corner, the Mayor came striding, swinging her hands out in that way she had, as if she was constantly making a point. And walking under the clock tower and into the square were the Twicklehams themselves.

Ah, it was too bad. The things that happened to people. Starting out in a new town, full of hope, and it all fell to pieces like this.

He was pretty sure the kids hadn’t meant it to go this far—they were wild but they had good hearts.

It was just the way the pieces fell sometimes.

Broken pieces falling.

And here came the Twicklehams now.

‘Wake up.’

Elliot woke on the couch.

His eyes went first to the doll’s house, but it was empty.

Then to the clock on the mantelpiece, but that must have stopped. Quarter past eight, it said, whereas Elliot woke at the exact same time each day.

Ten before six.

The house was quiet.

There were rustlings around: the wind rattling windows and door, that buzz from the fridge in the kitchen.

Another thing: it seemed brighter than it should.

He went into the kitchen and the clock on the oven said quarter past eight.

Couldn’t be.

He switched on the radio, waited through a song, and the announcer told him it was eight-seventeen.

For crying out loud.

He’d overslept. His mother must be out there in the greenhouse, wondering where he’d got to. Ah, he’d promised Corrie-Lynn he’d meet her at the Watermelon Inn to try to talk the Twicklehams into staying. Well, there was still time for that at least, if he moved fast.

It was that Butterfly Child.

He’d been up half the night trying to get her to talk, and then there was that strange—

Well, he didn’t know what it had been.

An actual conversation with her? A dream? A sleep-befuddled hallucination?

He stood by the doll’s house, looking at its empty rooms. The little pieces of wooden furniture that Corrie-Lynn had built: chairs, tables, a miniature wooden chest. Most of these, the Butterfly Child ignored, concentrating on the bed.

The covers were on the floor at the moment, and Elliot picked them up between his thumb and forefinger, ready to straighten up for her.

But something odd was on the bed.

There were five or six mothballs lined up there. At least, that’s how they looked. Little white balls, anyway, maybe pills or candy.

‘Wake up.’

There was that voice again. It had woken him on the couch. It was the flute voice from last night actually, sounding patient enough, but maybe a little sigh behind it too.

He laughed aloud.

Those weren’t mothballs, they were healing beads!

‘Thank you,’ the voice said promptly.

‘No. Thank you,’ he said aloud, grinning.

Ah, this day would turn out all right after all.

He’d go see the Twicklehams, see what he could do. Then he’d take these little white candies—‘Cut it out,’ chided the voice. Well, that’s what they looked like, they didn’t look like healing beads.

‘How exactly did you expect healing beads to look?’

He hadn’t given it much thought. More magical, he guessed. Like dewdrops, maybe, or at the very least like glass.

‘Oh, blah,’ murmured the voice.

Anyhow, he’d deliver them to Madeleine, and then she would believe in him and the Kingdom.

He found an envelope in the kitchen stationery drawer. Slipped the healing beads into it, folded the envelope and put it in his pocket.

Got himself an orange juice and a blueberry muffin.

Drank and ate leaning up against the counter.

Thought about taking the truck, but it was such a bright day, and the breeze was so jumpy, he’d ride his bike instead.

It happened just like those menus falling over. Slap-slap-slap. Pieces falling into place so fast Hector could hardly catch them.

Twicklehams approaching him. The usual formation—Derrin between them, the three holding hands.

Looked down a minute, and there was Derrin’s drawing on the side of his satchel. Green wind blowing across a green field, a green man and a green woman, each with green tears and sad green mouths.

The Mayor called, ‘Howdy, Hector!’, striding toward him.

Next table along, the kids were talking again. Cody was telling them more about Kala’s news. ‘She’s met three different people with the name Twickleham,’ he said.

‘Must be a common name in Olde Quainte,’ Nikki said.

‘And one of them even said they had cousins who’d been planning to move here to Bonfire,’ Cody continued. ‘But it didn’t work out.’

‘What are the chances?’ Shelby murmured, and the kids were quiet, and Hector could feel the guilt in the quiet.

The adult Twicklehams raised their free hands, waving at Hector. Their faces were solemn. In Fleta’s waving hand, a piece of paper fluttered.

He looked back at Derrin’s drawing, and the difference jarred.

Three people approaching—but in this picture there were just two. Now why had Derrin not drawn herself in as well?

The wind shifted his papers, even under the salt and pepper shakers.

What are the chances? Hector thought, confused. There were other Twicklehams planning to move here?

They were almost upon him, and slap-slap-slap, it was falling into place.

For haven’t we had the most unlikely influx of Green attacks in the last year or two?

Here in Derrin’s picture, everything was green.

The child’s mother was known in our little town for her whistling—ah, she would go about so gaily, whistling more than she spake—

Here in Derrin’s picture, these two sad adults. They were skinny as beanpoles! And weren’t those Twicklehams plump?

He looked closer at the woman in the picture. Her little mouth was a circle; he’d taken that to be sadness, but could it be that her lips were pursed? Was she actually whistling?

It was falling into place, but the pieces were still tangled, and still he’d have doubted if it wasn’t for what happened when he looked up again.

It must have shown on his face.

His slow revelation, his bewilderment, his questions.

They saw it right away.

The Twicklehams saw it, and they hesitated.

‘Stop them,’ said the Sheriff, his voice croaking with effort.

The Mayor herself stopped, surprised by the Sheriff’s face.

Suddenly the Twicklehams were running, Derrin still between them so their arms stretched and concertinaed like a chain of paper dolls.

‘Stop them!’ the Sheriff shouted, finding his voice. ‘Get Derrin!’

He was trying to run against the drag of his limp. Behind him, chairs were crashing to the ground.

On her porch, Clover Mackie watched as the Twicklehams ran towards the carpark; as Gabe, Cody, Nikki and Shelby sprinted after them; as the Sheriff loped and hollered; as Olivia Hattoway, grade-school teacher, threw open the doors of her car and slid into the driver’s seat; as a sheet of paper flew from Fleta’s hand, and curved itself high into the breeze.

There were sounds of commotion—engines revving, squealing tyres, horns, shouts, even a siren—but Elliot didn’t take much notice, riding along Aubin Street towards the Watermelon.

His mood was so high and hopeful.

Then he was at the top of the slope, and there it all was, right before him.

The madness.

A car was speeding up Aubin from the opposite direction.

Three motorscooters right behind it, zigzagging madly. One almost toppled, then rode on. A fourth motorscooter was heading cross-country, across the dirt, toward the Overbrook Bridge. Behind them all came the Sheriff’s car, siren blazing.

In the car park of the Watermelon, the tiny shape of Corrie-Lynn stood still amidst parked cars, watching in wonder.

The cross-country motorscooter skidded sideways, slammed onto the dirt, and its rider leapt up and ran toward the bridge.

Elliot recognised her. It was Shelby.

He looked back at the speeding car. That was Olivia Hattoway driving, and in the passenger seat beside her was Fleta Twickleham.

Looked like Mr Twickleham in the back seat, and Derrin too.

And on the other motorscooters?

It couldn’t be.

But it was.

Nikki, Gabe and Cody: what were they doing?

‘Stop it!’ he shouted. ‘Stop it!’

This could not be happening! What had he started? What were they doing to the Twicklehams now? Chasing them out of town? What sort of madness had overtaken them?

He tried again, but now the car’s tyres were spinning as it swerved towards the bridge—the bridge that led to the road out of town—and his voice got lost in the squeal of it.

‘Leave the Twicklehams alone!’ he shouted, rough with hoarseness. ‘Let them go!’ and right at the word ‘go!’ there was a low, thunderous BOOM!, a blast of black smoke and a scream from Corrie-Lynn.

The bridge!

She’d blown up the Overbrook Bridge. Shelby had blown up the bridge.

Great chunks of concrete crashed and collided; single bricks fountained; dirt and water flew up from the river.

The Sheriff’s car shrieked to a stop.

Olivia Hattoway braked just as her car was about to hit. Almost at the same moment, she reversed, and mud splattered the windows.

Nikki and Gabe swerved to avoid her, but now they’d caught up. They were riding either side of the car, Cody just behind, all of them heading up Aubin now, towards Elliot.

He threw himself to the side of the road to get out of the way, and watched from the dirt.

Nikki was riding alongside the car, using her elbow to smash the back window. Inside, there was a lowering of heads against the showering glass. Gabe reached a hand through the broken window, hit a pothole in the road, bounced twice, and overturned so he spilled onto the gutter. Nikki rode up instead, reached in one hand, her other hand on the handlebar—and next thing, impossibly, she was opening the car door.

It swung back and forth as the car sped, Nikki sped, Cody sped behind her, then somehow, between them, Nikki and Cody were dragging Derrin from the car.

The car raced away.

Its door rattled closed. It disappeared into the distance.

The Sheriff’s car flashed by Elliot, siren blasting.

There was another sound—loud and persistent—and the siren stopped suddenly, the Sheriff’s car slowing.

It was the warning bells.

Everybody stopped.

The motor scooters. The Sheriff’s car.

The warning bells chimed and chimed.

It was the code for a first-level Yellow.

Lemon Yellow.

Most lethal Colour of them all.

They hadn’t noticed Corrie-Lynn in the carpark.

They got themselves into the Watermelon Inn: Nikki carrying Derrin in her arms like a baby; Gabe, Cody and Shelby running; the Sheriff reversing his car down the hill, then racing in after them. The shutters to the Watermelon slammed closed.

That’s when they saw her.

Through the gaps in the shutters, swarms of Yellow filled the air. These took the form of bright little darts, each group soaring low and sure.

Lemon Yellows aim for the eyes and the heart. Each one blinds with its first strike, and kills with its second.

They saw her all at once—Corrie-Lynn—still standing in the carpark, confused, and Alanna screamed and threw herself at the shutters, scrabbling to open them and get out.

Then Elliot was there.

Outside, flying past the shutters, running by the windows, into the carpark, to Corrie-Lynn.

‘He’s doesn’t have anything,’ someone said.

‘There’s nothing he can do.’

He was there with her. He was trying car doors, but they were locked. He took Corrie-Lynn’s hand in his, looking back towards the Watermelon. The air was thick with the Yellow dart swarms; any moment now a swarm would aim at Elliot and Corrie-Lynn.

In the Watermelon, Alanna kept screaming to get out to them, but guests gripped her elbows and dragged her back.

Elliot and Corrie-Lynn were running, hand in hand.

‘They can’t make it,’ whispered Hector.

A swarm cut them off from the hotel. Two more swarms drifted closer.

At the edge of the carpark, Elliot and Corrie-Lynn stopped. They were surrounded.

Elliot put an arm tight around Corrie-Lynn.

‘They’ve given up,’ murmured someone.

They were going to die. Elliot and Corrie-Lynn were going to die right before their eyes.

But now Elliot was crouching. They could see his lips moving—he was talking and crouching.

He was doing something on the ground. He was at one of the faucets, and was turning it.

Now Corrie-Lynn was on the ground at the other faucet.

Then, all around them, the sprinklers shot up.

Elliot called to her again.

They were detaching sprinklers, and lifting them into the air, the water rising higher.

A swarm of Yellow darts had seen them now.

A second swarm swerved towards them from the east.

They were tilting the sprinklers, lifting them, lowering them. Then it happened. Sunlight hit the water and faint colours wavered in the air around them.

‘Stop!’ Elliot shouted, so sharply it was audible from the Inn. ‘Hold it now!’

Rainbows of colours shimmered around them in an almost circle.

The swarms were almost on them. And then the strangest thing.

The Lemon Yellows hit the rainbows and faded.

They struck at Elliot and Corrie-Lynn, but over and over they hit the rainbows, and dwindled into something pale and listless.

Other swarms attacked, but each Yellow that hit melted away—melted into something that wasn’t quite there, like mist on a window.

Then there was a shift, and the swarms changed direction altogether.

They swung around, flew away, and disappeared.

Elliot and Corrie-Lynn stood in the carpark.

The rainbows played in the air around them. The water drenched them. But still they stood, arms aching, sprinklers held high to catch the sun.