The sun was high in the sky now, winking off the icy bracken that poked through the heather either side of the track. Moll could tell Pepper was uneasy about breaking off from the others, but she urged the pony on, clicking her tongue and gripping his flanks with her legs. They followed the moors down to where the bracken petered out and a dirt road running parallel to the coastline began. It curved round a bend to her left, out of sight, but to her right it led straight on past a humpback bridge a mile or so further up the road and, although Pepper yanked his neck back round to the moors and whinnied, Moll edged him on to the track.

They hadn’t taken more than a few strides before a cart rumbled round the bend and Pepper reared up, sending Moll crashing down into the bracken. She grappled for the reins, but Pepper shied, then bolted back towards the moors and Moll cursed as she remembered Aira’s words about the highland ponies: The only time you’ve got to watch them is if they leave the moors because they get spooked by carts and cottages. She watched as Pepper galloped further and further up the path, but she didn’t have time to go after him because the cart was drawing near. Gryff sank his teeth into Moll’s coat, tugging her down into the bracken with him, and then they waited, Moll’s heart throbbing as she peered through the ferns.

The cart was filled with crates of vegetables, sacks of potatoes and a large bundle of firewood and, to Moll’s surprise, a boy a few years younger than her sat up front behind the horse, his legs tucked beneath a blanket. Moll crouched lower in the bracken as he pulled the cart to a stop beside them. The boy was bundled up in an overcoat and a scarf, but beneath his woollen hat she could make out two dark eyes and a shock of white-blond hair. Moll considered him. He looked perfectly harmless, but Kittlerumpit the goblin hadn’t looked much either, so Moll didn’t want to take any chances.

The boy narrowed his eyes in Moll’s direction. ‘I see you can,’ he said, then he shook his head as if he’d realised there was something not quite right about his words. He tried again. ‘I can see you.’

Moll said nothing and kept absolutely still beside Gryff. The boy said nothing also and, just as Moll was contemplating flinging herself out into the road with her catapult in one hand and her bow in the other, the boy spoke again.

‘Are you who?’

Moll could feel the beads of sweat inching down her back. She was unsure of the boy – she knew that strangers were often not to be trusted – and she couldn’t work out why he was speaking in such a jumbled way.

The boy smacked his head. ‘I mean, WHO ARE YOU?’

Moll stood up slowly, her bow raised. Beside her, Gryff bared his teeth.

‘The question,’ she growled, setting an arrow to her string, ‘is who are you?’

The boy backed up in his seat. ‘A-a-am I Bruce?’ he stammered.

Moll’s squinted, but she kept her bow raised to her chin. ‘I don’t know. You tell me. Are you Bruce?’

The boy nodded hastily. ‘Yes, yes. I AM BRUCE. I’m not much good with words. Better with food. I’m the book – the COOK – up at Greystone.’ He reddened. ‘Sorry – it’s worse when I meet new people.’

‘Greystone,’ Moll muttered. ‘Is that where you’re going now?’

‘No. I mean, YES.’ Bruce threw his hands up. ‘Can you put your bow and arrow down, please? It’s putting me off!’

Gryff snarled beside Moll. He didn’t seem to trust the boy, but Moll could see Greystone now. She was so close to Siddy.

She lowered her bow. ‘I’m meeting someone at Greystone,’ she said evenly.

Bruce’s eyes lit up. ‘Siddy? You’re meeting Siddy, aren’t you?’

Moll’s heart skipped a beat.

Bruce smiled. ‘Mrs Grey ate him for breakfast.’

‘WHAT?’ Moll spat.

‘Oh, no! I mean, he’s HAVING BREAKFAST WITH MRS GREY. That’s what I mean.’

Moll breathed a sigh of relief. ‘Who’s Mrs Grey?’

Bruce was silent for a moment, as if planning his words very carefully. ‘She inherited the castle years ago. Keeps herself to herself, but she’s got a good heart and she believes in the old magic. She’s spent the last month trying to come up with ways to destroy the quail – I mean, VEIL – and she knows the wind spirits in the north better than anyone. When they whispered of a boy lost on the moors, she commanded them to bring him here.’

Bruce beamed, clearly pleased with his string of successful sentences. ‘You’re Moll, aren’t you? Siddy speaks about you a lot.’

Moll nodded.

Bruce leant forward. ‘I would like to lift you.’

Moll raised an eyebrow. ‘That would be awful.’

Bruce shook his head and looked rather glum. ‘I meant to ask if you’d LIKE A LIFT?’

Moll glanced at Gryff who eyed Bruce up and down, then reluctantly slunk round the back of the cart and leapt up between the crates. Moll clambered in after him and Bruce spurred his horse on.

‘Come far?’ the boy asked, craning his neck round.

Moll thought about it. She’d ridden north as a stowaway on a train, braved a gorge full of witches, survived moors full of peatboggers and escaped a goblin’s lair.

‘Quite far,’ she mumbled.

Bruce shrugged. ‘I’m local. Born on the Lost Isles.’

He turned back to his horse and started whistling and, after a while, the cart veered left on to the humpback bridge. Moll’s gaze fell upon the castle looming in front: a square fortress with ramparts skirting the highest level and four turrets rising from each corner. The cart crept closer still and Moll took in the tall windows lining the façade and the large wooden door, criss-crossed with iron bands. And then she heard a sound that set her heart reeling.

‘Moll! Moll!’

It was Siddy. Not an echo of his voice trapped in a knot of wind. This was him, right here on the Lost Isles, and, as he cried out again, Moll’s face broke into a grin.

‘Sid!’ she yelled. ‘I’m here!’

She scrambled down from the cart with Gryff before Bruce had even pulled it to a stop, then she darted towards the door and rapped the brass knocker. She waited, hopping from foot to foot at the thought of seeing Siddy, but no one came. She knocked again. Still no answer. Then she turned round to find that Bruce and his cart were nowhere to be seen.

Gryff’s hackles rose. Something didn’t feel right. They’d heard Siddy cry out just a moment ago and yet no one had come to the door. Moll followed Gryff’s gaze, back towards the shore, and gasped.

‘How on earth . . .?’

The humpback bridge had completely disappeared and Moll gulped as the realisation crept in: they were cut off from the mainland now. She turned back to the door and, just as she was about to knock a third time, somebody screamed. Moll’s head jerked up towards the window where the sound had come from and there was Siddy, at last, but his face was white with terror. And through the glass Moll heard his muffled voice.

‘It’s a trick, Moll!’ he shouted. ‘Get away from here! Run!’

The window was darkened suddenly by a whirl of grey cloak and then Siddy was gone. Moll reached behind her for an arrow and it was only then that she discovered it wasn’t just Bruce and the bridge that had vanished.

The golden feather was gone too.