A strong, chill wind whistled through Elfwood. Tree rabbits, perching in the lower branches of the oaks and pines, snored restlessly in their sleep and huddled together for warmth, while roosting batbirds, high up at the top of the jub-jub trees, cried out as they were swung to and fro.

‘Ouch!’

Trudging through the trees came a stooped figure, his bony fingers clasping at his flapping cape and keeping the hood raised. With each step, his boots sank deep into the squidgy mulch of mud and fallen leaves, slowing him down and making him sweat with effort despite the cold.

At the centre of the woods was a clearing – Giggle Glade, its name – and in the centre of the clearing was a modest dwelling, built of wood and ornately decorated. The caped figure fought his way to the door.

The wind was howling round the house, setting the powder-blue shutters rattling and the wooden roof tiles clacking. Inside the house, seated in shadow upon a high-backed and intricately carved throne, Dr Cuddles waited.

‘Soon,’ he giggled. ‘Very soon.’

As if on cue, the front door burst open. Dr Cuddles smiled.

‘Is that you, Quentin?’

‘Y . . . yes, Master,’ panted Quentin as he forced the door shut against the buffeting wind. ‘Goodness me,’ he said. ‘It’s blowing a gale out there. I had to battle with it every step of the way.’ He shook his head wearily. ‘I’m utterly pooped.’

‘Pooped?’ Dr Cuddles giggled. ‘How delightful. I trust you bring good news.’

Quentin lowered his hood, smoothed down his slightly ruffled golden curls and twirled the ends of his magnificent moustache. He looked up. The throne was set in deep shadow. Only Dr Cuddles’s startlingly blue eyes were visible. Glinting and unblinking, they bored into him from the darkness. Quentin felt his knees begin to tremble.

‘Well?’ said Dr Cuddles. ‘I take it that the Horned Baron has been taken care of at last.’ He giggled unpleasantly. ‘I’m sure our scaly friend enjoyed her little snack.’ The high-pitched, somewhat sinister giggling grew louder. ‘Did she crunch his bones?’ he said.‘Did she tear him limb from limb?’

‘Actually, sir,’ said Quentin, hanging his head. ‘There’s something I’ve got to tell you.’

The eyes narrowed to slits. ‘Well?’ he demanded.

Quentin swallowed nervously and took a deep breath. ‘Things didn’t go quite according to plan,’ he said in a rush.

Dr Cuddles sighed. ‘Explain yourself,’ he said coldly.

‘There was a bit of a mix-up,’ he said. ‘At the garden party. It seems that the dragon might have chewed up the wrong person.’

‘The wrong person?’ said Dr Cuddles testily.

‘He just turned up at the last minute and spoiled everything,’ said Quentin. ‘There was nothing I could do.’

‘Who?’ He sounded furious now.

‘That wizard c . . . c . . . character,’ Quentin stammered. ‘Randalf. Randalf the Wise . . .’

‘I might have known,’ Dr Cuddles muttered, drumming his stubby fingers on the arms of the throne. ‘Why can’t he keep his big nose out of my affairs?’

Quentin permitted himself a little smile. ‘If I know my dragons,’ he said, ‘it probably saved his big nose till last.’

Dr Cuddles giggled. ‘Oh, I do hope so,’ he said. ‘But that still leaves the small matter of the uneaten Horned Baron.’

‘Plan B, Master?’ said Quentin.

‘Plan B,’ Dr Cuddles confirmed. He clapped his paws together and a dozen elves appeared as if from nowhere. ‘Unlock Roger the Wrinkled and bring him to me,’ he commanded. ‘Go!’

‘At once, Master,’ the elves twittered, and scurried off to do as they had been told.

Quentin, relieved that Dr Cuddles hadn’t taken his news too badly, removed his cape and hung it on a hook on the door. ‘How about a nice snuggle-muffin?’ he said. ‘I decorated some specially for you earlier and . . .’

‘Quentin,’ said Dr Cuddles. ‘This is no time for snuggle-muffins.’

‘No, sir,’ said Quentin. ‘Silly of me.’

Just then, there came a scuffling from the corridor and the sound of raised voices. A door flew open and the elves bustled into the room tugging on a long, heavy lead, at the end of which was a decidedly bedraggled, not to say wrinkled, wizard. From the top of his high-domed forehead to the tip of his long, pointed chin, spread an intricate network of wrinkles. His ears were wrinkled, his cheeks were wrinkled, his nose was wrinkled – even his wrinkles were wrinkled.

‘How dare you treat me like this?’ he blustered. ‘I can’t possibly be expected to work under these conditions!’

‘My word, you are wrinkled, aren’t you?’ giggled Dr Cuddles. ‘I always forget.’

‘Well, is it any wonder?’ snapped Roger. ‘Chained up in that poky little room, working every hour under the sun. I’m telling you, I can’t take much more of it. And then this!’ He tugged at the lead. ‘The indignity of it all.’

‘It’s your own fault,’ said Quentin sharply. ‘You shouldn’t keep trying to escape.’

‘I’ve already explained all that,’ said Roger loftily. ‘I was just stretching my legs.’

‘You were running,’ Quentin reminded him.

‘Just answering a call of nature,’ said Roger.

‘You were disguised as a washerwoman,’ said Quentin.

‘I explained that as well,’ Roger began uncertainly. ‘It all started when I was a child and used to try my mother’s dresses on . . .’

‘Never mind all that,’ Dr Cuddles cut in. ‘I summoned you here to discuss a matter of great importance to me . . .’

‘The Horned Baron,’ said Roger the Wrinkled.

‘You read my mind,’ giggled Dr Cuddles.

The wizard nodded. ‘I trust the cutlery performed to your satisfaction,’ he said.

‘Yes, it did,’ said Dr Cuddles. ‘Unfortunately, there was a slight hitch.’

‘A hitch?’ said Roger.

‘Quite amusing, really,’ said Dr Cuddles, giggling rather hysterically. ‘It seems the cutlery lured the dragon to Quentin’s pink pavilion just as we planned but, unfortunately, the pavilion contained the wrong person.’

‘The wrong person?’ said Roger.

‘Why, Roger!’ Dr Cuddles giggled. ‘You’re beginning to sound like an echo.’

‘An echo?’ said Roger.

Dr Cuddles’s giggle turned decidedly nasty. ‘I have decided to put Plan B into action,’ he said.

The wizard’s wrinkled face collapsed. ‘Not the . . .’

‘Yes, Roger,’ said Dr Cuddles, giggling wildly. ‘The flying wardrobes.’

‘But Dr Cuddles,’ said Roger. ‘I really can’t advise that. Not yet. They’re not ready.’

‘My dear Roger,’ said Dr Cuddles, ‘I hope I don’t need to heat up the metal underpants again.’

Roger the Wrinkled took a step backwards. ‘Not the underpants, I beg you!’ he pleaded. ‘It’s just that . . .’

‘Just what?’ The sound of his drumming fingers grew louder.

‘Well, the flying bit is easy,’ Roger the Wrinkled explained, ‘but putting the wardrobes together is an absolute nightmare! I mean, the instructions never make sense, and there’s always an extra screw left over . . .’

‘Enough of all these excuses!’ roared Dr Cuddles. He clapped. The elves jumped to attention. ‘Fetch me the Great Book of Spells.’

‘At once, Master,’ the elves trilled, and scuttled off through a different door.

‘. . . and as for the splinters!’

‘Be silent, Roger!’ said Dr Cuddles sharply. ‘Under my close supervision, I shall allow you to consult the Great Book of Spells,’ he announced. ‘We launch the wardrobes tonight!’

‘But . . .’

Dr Cuddles giggled. ‘I have absolute confidence in your skills, Roger. You and your fellow wizards had better not fail me – or else.’

Roger shuffled about uncomfortably. ‘The underpants?’ he said nervously. Dr Cuddles nodded.

Puffing and panting, the elves returned with a heavy wooden box; the spell book locked up inside it. They scuttled over to the throne.

‘The Great Book of Spells, Master,’ the elves said in unison.

‘Put it on my lectern,’ Dr Cuddles told them. ‘Then, when Roger has finished reading the appropriate spell, put him on his lead and take him back.’ He turned to the wizard. ‘And no tricks,’ he giggled. ‘Do you understand?’

‘Tricks, Dr Cuddles?’ said Roger. ‘I don’t know what you mean.’

The steely eyes glared out of the shadows. ‘Take care, Roger the Wrinkled,’ Dr Cuddles said with a giggle. ‘I shall be watching your every move.’

The tiny teaspoon was almost at the end of its epic journey. As the mountain cave came into view it sighed, tripped and fell, picked itself up and sighed again. The end was literally in sight.

With a soft tinkle-tinkle, the teaspoon hopped into the cave entrance.

Even though it was getting dark outside, with the sun down on the horizon, it was far darker inside the cave. The teaspoon paused and cocked its bowl to one side.

Noise. There was lots of noise echoing down a tunnel that led deep into the mountain. Clinking and clanking. Clashing and clattering.

And raised voices . . .

‘I’ll do anything,’ shouted one, clearly at the end of its tether. ‘Just make them be still!’

‘I’m doing everything I can!’ cried another.

‘Which isn’t much!’ taunted a third.

The tiny teaspoon continued. Chink, chink, chink. Over stones and gravel, and the occasional small bone, it continued along the tunnel, heading for the dull red glow at the end. Closer and closer it got; louder and louder the echoing noises became.

All at once, the tunnel opened up and the tiny teaspoon found itself at the edge of a vast underground cavern. There were the individuals it had followed from the castle, their backs turned. Behind them was a dragon. And behind the dragon . . .

The tiny teaspoon let out a little sigh and hopped up and down on the dusty floor.

It was the sugar tongs who first noticed the newcomer. Its raised tong clunked insistently on the side of a golden goblet. The knives rustled, the spoons clinked, the forks clanged as, one by one, the cutlery all became aware of the tiny teaspoon in their midst.

From every corner of the cavern, they appeared. The meat cleavers and skewers, the forks, whisks and ladles, the egg spoons and soup spoons, cake forks and butter knives – and even the dumpy egg slicer – all began hurrying to the spot where the tiny teaspoon was performing its strange, bouncing little dance.

‘Oh, good grief!’ the dragon groaned. ‘What’s happening now?’

‘I’m attempting a reverse enchantment,’ said Randalf importantly, waving his arms about, ‘with a triple bypass and a double switchback. Very tricky, it is. I need absolute silence.’

‘Fat chance,’ said Margot, above the din. ‘It’s getting worse than ever!’

‘Yes, but listen,’ said Joe. ‘It’s different.’

Instead of the cacophony of noise the cutlery had been making since their arrival, one by one, they were all beginning to strike up the same pounding beat – CRASH! CRASH! CRASH! CRASH! – until the whole great mass of them were pounding together.

‘It’s the teaspoon,’ said Joe. ‘Look. They’re following its lead.’

Randalf nodded wisely. Sure enough, the great clash of noise rang out every time the tip of the bouncing teaspoon’s handle hit the ground.

‘Well spotted, my boy,’ he said. ‘That’s my double switchback taking effect.’

‘I’ll tell you something else,’ said Joe. ‘I’ve seen that teaspoon before.’

‘Oh, one teaspoon looks very much like another in my experience,’ said Randalf, performing a strange little jig on one leg and puffing heavily.

‘Hurry up!’ urged Margot. She clutched her head and rocked slowly back and forwards as the deafening noise continued. ‘I really, really don’t think I can stand any more of this.’

‘Reverse enchantment can’t be hurried, madam,’ Randalf replied. He stopped hopping, raised his arms and began whispering urgently under his breath.

‘You really have no idea what you’re doing, do you?’ said Veronica.

‘Shut up, Veronica,’ hissed Randalf.

All at once, the tiny teaspoon hopped up on to a boulder and tapped insistently. At the sound, all the other cutlery fell still. Every knife, every fork, every spoon. The cavern was silent, at last – silent, except for a faint squeak, squeak, squeak as Veronica swung backwards and forwards in her cage.

‘I don’t believe it!’ she said. ‘What did you do, you old fraud?’

‘I’ve absolutely no idea,’ said Randalf, who looked as surprised as everyone else.

Just then, the tiny teaspoon turned and began hopping back the way it had come.

Everyone held their breath.

The sugar tongs moved first. With a shudder and a creak, they tripped after the teaspoon. The rest of the cutlery, calm now and in well-ordered ranks, followed close behind. As the last of them – the small toothpick with Simon engraved on it – disappeared into the tunnel, Margot let out a long, happy sigh of relief.

‘They’ve gone,’ she said. ‘Thank goodness for that. I don’t know how to thank you.’

Randalf lowered his arms at last and turned to the dragon. ‘I do,’ he said.