Many miles north of the lighthouse, past the knotted trees of Tanglefern Forest and the villages scattered throughout the countryside, the landscape grows wilder and fields give way to moors, lochs and glens. In the heart of this wilderness are the mountains, towering ridges scaling the width of the land. And carved into the rock face of the highest crag, almost lost in the clouds, is a monastery.

Night is at its thickest now; the mountain is dark and still. But there’s a light coming from a room at the top of a turret, a single candle flickering on a window ledge. Inside sits a figure – cloaked and masked – before a spinning wheel. And the only sound to break the silence of the night is the slow tap of his foot against the treadle and the creak of old wood as the wheel turns.

Long, thin fingers pluck the fibre from a basket and feed it on to the wheel. The fibre is black and glittering and, as it spins round and round, it tightens into thread, shining like oil. And then the boot pauses. The wheel stops. And the figure looks up. Candlelight falls upon his mask: a canvas face – strips of tattered sack stitched together, rough holes cut for eyes and a jagged line for the mouth. There is no nose, but clumps of musty straw hang down beneath the hood where hair might once have been.

And there’s another noise in the turret now, a sound so soft it might have been missed before. But it’s there all right, a hushed kind of whispering, and it’s coming from the fibre itself as if sounds have been locked inside it: muffled sobs, a gasp, teeth chattering, a faint scream. The fibre is almost a living, breathing thing and, although every sound it makes is different, each one tells of the same thing: fear.

The figure runs a curled nail along the fibre – slowly, thoughtfully, gently. This is something very precious. The sack mouth smiles and the eyeholes slant.

‘You’re almost ready, aren’t you?’

Each word is precise, each syllable like a perfect stitch. The figure glances at an old wardrobe at the far side of the room. It is barred shut with a plank of wood, but, as the figure watches, the plank begins to shake. Whatever is locked inside the wardrobe knows it’s being watched and wants to get out.

‘All in good time,’ the figure whispers. ‘All in good time.’

Then the wardrobe doors are still once more and the figure pushes the treadle down with his foot. Again the wheel turns, creaking into the night, and the black thread gathers round the spindle.

 

THE DREAMSNATCHER saw the Tribe face the Shadowmasks in the forest. THE SHADOW KEEPER saw them battle the witchdoctors down by the sea. Get ready for the final book in the trilogy, where they journey to the northern wilderness to force the Shadowmasks back once and for all. Here’s a little teaser for what to expect . . .

An enormous thank you to creative superstar, Thierry Kelaart, for drawing me a world inside a feather.