‘An IOU!’ Randalf stormed. ‘Not worth the pair of frilly lace pantaloons it’s written on!’

It was later that day and he and the others were back on the houseboat.

‘Of all the low-down, two-timing, back-stabbing, sneaky tricks to play!’ He turned to Joe. ‘Let this be a warning to you. Never, ever trust the word of a baron, no matter how pointy his horns.’

‘Still, it is an IOU,’ said Joe. ‘Even if you couldn’t find anything else to write on, you did get his signature. That must be worth something.’

Randalf blushed.

‘Show him your knickers,’ said Veronica. ‘Go on!’

Randalf handed the pantaloons to Joe. ‘IOU eighty big ’uns,’ read Joe, ‘signed The Grand Old Duke of York . . .’

‘What?’ said Randalf. He snatched back the pantaloons and stared miserably at the fake signature. ‘I’m just too trusting,’ he said and sighed. ‘Typical of the Horned Baron to pull a fast one. And after everything I did for him!’

‘Everything Margot did, more like,’ said Veronica. ‘What a fine dragon she turned out to be. A real lady. And generous too,’ she added. ‘She gave us some lovely presents. Norbert’s baking trays,

Joe’s warrior-hero outfit, not to mention my gorgeous little cage.’ She tinkled her little bell and preened in front of the mirror. ‘My own little home,’ she sighed. ‘Remind me, Randalf,’ she said, turning to the wizard. ‘What did she give you?’

Randalf gave the Potty of Thrynn a vicious kick. ‘Ouch!’ he cried.

‘It goes with your knickers!’ said Veronica smugly.

‘Shut up, Veronica!’ said Randalf.

From inside the kitchen came the sounds of whistling, whisking and the clattering of pots and pans.

‘Still, could be worse, I suppose,’ said Randalf.‘Norbert’s cooking has certainly improved. And Joe, my boy, you certainly look the part in that outfit. Shame about the dented helmet. Are those wings meant to stick out like that?’

Joe smiled. ‘It’ll make a nice souvenir,’ he said, ‘when I go back home. When will that be again?’

‘I’ll see to it as soon as I can,’ said Randalf, suddenly finding the details on the side of the Potty of Thrynn extremely fascinating.

‘But when?’ said Joe. ‘Haven’t I done enough yet?’

Randalf traced the outline of what appeared to be a large bottom engraved into the silver. ‘Wonderful workmanship,’ he murmured.

‘When?’ said Joe.

Randalf took a tentative sniff at the potty. ‘I must wash my beard again,’ he muttered.

‘Randalf!’ said Joe sharply. ‘When are you going to send me home?’

The wizard turned. ‘You know how it is,’ he said. ‘Waiting for an auspicious moment and all that. The alignment of the stars. The configuration of the moons . . .’

‘No! No!’ Joe shouted. ‘You know that’s not true. The moment could come and go, and you still wouldn’t be able to do anything because you don’t know the spell! We’ve got to go to Elfwood and recover Roger the Wrinkled’s Great Book of Spells. It’s the only way.’

‘The lad’s right,’ said Veronica. ‘Even if it does mean meeting up with Dr Cuddl—’

‘Veronica!’ Randalf shouted. ‘I forbid you to use that name in my presence.’

‘Besides,’ said Veronica, swinging gaily to and fro on her perch, ‘if you stand any chance of ever seeing those eighty gold big ’uns, you’re going to have to go there.’

‘I am?’ said Randalf.

‘Where else do you think that wardrobe took Ingrid?’ she replied.

Randalf groaned. ‘You don’t mean . . .’

‘He – who shall remain nameless – has got the Great Book of Spells,’ said Veronica. ‘He’s got Roger the Wrinkled and the other wizards – and now he’s added Ingrid to his collection. It’s all part of his master plan.’

‘Then, there’s no choice,’ said Joe firmly. ‘We must go to Giggle Glade.’

‘Better hang on to that potty, Randalf!’ said Veronica. ‘From the look on your face, you’re going to need it.’

A solitary wardrobe lay on the ground beside the front door of the little house at the centre of Giggle Glade. It was still. One door was open and one closed. A pile of hangers lay in a corner. Dr Cuddles looked at it through the window.

‘You have done well,’ he giggled. ‘My self-assembled pine-clad beauty!’

He turned away and slipped into the shadows.

Quentin nodded his head vigorously. ‘That was one of mine, master,’ he said. ‘The instructions were ever so tricky, and I had three screws left over.’

‘Excellent,’ Dr Cuddles went on, giggling unpleasantly. ‘Even though our losses were high!’

‘I told you we needed more time,’ said Roger the Wrinkled. ‘The Welsh dresser was only half done, and someone sent off the teddy bear linen chest with all your quilts by mistake.’

‘We all have to make sacrifices,’ said Dr Cuddles, a slight choke in his voice. ‘I might not have the Horned Baron, but I have the next best thing!’ He giggled.

‘Ooh, Dr Cuddles, you’re so wicked,’ said Quentin.

‘He’ll be like putty in my hand,’ Dr Cuddles giggled. ‘What won’t he do to get his beloved Ingrid back? He’ll be knocking on my door, begging me to return her. And when he does . . .’

The room resounded with his sinister, high-pitched giggling.

‘Cuddles?’ screeched an imperious voice. ‘Cuddles!’

The giggling stopped. ‘What can that infernal woman want now?’ Dr Cuddles muttered. ‘Surely she can’t have broken free of the restraints already.’ He turned and clapped his paws together.

Nothing happened.

‘Where are those confounded elves?’ he shouted.

‘Cuddles!’ Ingrid’s voice sliced through the air like a knife.

Dr Cuddles shuddered. ‘Roger!’ he shouted. ‘Quentin!

Come back here!’

‘CUDDLES!’

‘Aah, this is the life,’ sighed the Horned Baron.

He was reclining on a mountain of well-stuffed, if heavily patched, cushions in front of a roaring fire, his toes covered by a quilt with teddy bears on it. The curtains were drawn. The candles were lit.

The Horned Baron sipped from a large mug of spittle tea and plucked a hairy toffee from the box on his lap. Many hours had passed since Ingrid’s unfortunate disappearance. He popped a second toffee into his mouth. Poor, dear Ingrid . . .

Knock, knock.

The rapping at the door shattered the silence of the cavernous room and reminded the Horned Baron just how quiet it was.

‘Enter,’ he called.

The door opened and Benson approached. ‘Bad news, sir,’ he said. ‘There’s still no sign of the Baroness.’

‘Oh dear, what a terrible shame,’ said the Horned Baron. ‘Still, mustn’t grumble.’ He raised the mug to his lips and sipped the spittle tea. ‘Delicious,’ he murmured. ‘Throw another piece of wardrobe on the fire on your way out, Benson. There’s a good chap.’

As the gardener shut the door behind him, the Horned Baron leaned back into the plump cushions and closed his eyes.

‘Really must rescue Ingrid.’ He yawned. ‘One of these days.’

The weary pieces of cutlery huddled together round a large sign which read Nowhere as the sun set on another day.

They’d come so far. So very far. A soft wind blew and, as the moons of Muddle Earth rose in the sky, the cutlery glinted in the purple, yellow and green light.

The tiny teaspoon stood apart from the rest. It seemed to be listening to something that only it could hear. Something far off. Something calling to it . . .

With a little sigh, the teaspoon turned. The journey ahead was long, but it had to be done.

Tinkle, tinkle, it went as it tripped back across the stony ground. Clink, chink, clatter, clang, went the knives, forks, spoons and all the rest of the cutlery as they followed on behind.

Through the mountains they journeyed, across the plains. By dawn the following morning, the tall trees of Elfwood could be seen on the distant horizon.

The tiny teaspoon trembled with excitement. The calling was closer. It sighed softly.

Soon. Very soon . . .

‘Cuddles!’ A raucous voice shattered the silence of Giggle Glade. ‘I shan’t tell you again. I want my hot-water bottle refilling and I want it now!’

Dr Cuddles managed a weary giggle.

‘Cuddles!’

‘Is that you, my little caged song thrush?’ replied Dr Cuddles. He glanced out of the window for any sign of visitors. There was none. He giggled anxiously. ‘How the Horned Baron must be missing you?’ he said.

‘He can’t live without me!’ Ingrid screeched. ‘And when he finds out how I’ve been treated, he’ll knock your block off! Now, see to my hot-water bottle. Immediately!’

Dr Cuddles shook his head. His piercing blue eyes narrowed. ‘Oh, Horned Baron,’ he muttered, giggling menacingly. ‘You’re going to pay for this. You mark my words! You’re going to pay for this dearly!’