The Queen’s people wouldn’t just take food. They’d take people, too—
‘- like pipers,’ said William the gonnagle. ‘Fairies can’t make music, ye ken. She’ll steal a man awa’ for the music he makes.’
‘And she takes children,’ said Tiffany. ‘Aye. Your wee brother’s not the first,’ said Rob Anybody. There’s no’ a lot of fun and laughter here, ye ken. She thinks she’s good wi’ children.’
‘The old kelda said she wouldn’t harm him,’ said Tiffany. That’s true, isn’t it?’
You could read the Nac Mac Feegle like a book. And it would be a big, simple book with pictures of Spot the Dog and a Big Red Ball and one or two short sentences on each page. What they were thinking turned up right there on their faces and, now, they were all wearing a look that said: Crivens, I hope she disnae ask us the question we dinnae wantae answer . . .
‘That is true, isn’t it?’ she said.
‘Oh, aye,’ said Rob Anybody, slowly. ‘She didnae lie to ye there. The Quin’ll try to be kind to him, but she disnae know how. She’s an elf. They’re no’ very good at thinking of other people.’
‘What will happen to him if we don’t get him back?’
Again, there was that ‘we dinnae like the way this is going’ look.
‘I said—’ Tiffany repeated.
‘I darrresay she’ll send him back, in due time,’ said William. ‘An’ he willnae be any olderr. Nothing grows old here. Nothing grows. Nothing at all.’
‘So he’ll be all right?’
Rob Anybody made a noise in his throat. It sounded like a voice that was trying to say ‘aye’ but was being argued with by a brain that knew the answer was ‘no’.
‘Tell me what you’re not telling me,’ said Tiffany.
Daft Wullie was the first to speak. That’s a lot o’ stuff,’ he said. ‘For example, the meltin’ point o’ lead is—’
“Time passes slower the deeper you go intae this place,’ said Rob Anybody quickly. ‘Years pass like days. The Quin’ll get tired o’ the wee lad after a coupla months, mebbe. A coupla months here, ye ken, where the time is slow an’ heavy. But when he comes back into the mortal world, you’ll be an old lady, or mebbe you’ll be deid. So if youse has bairns o’ yer own, you’d better tell them to watch out for a wee sticky kid wanderin’ the hills shoutin’ for sweeties, ‘cos that’ll be their Uncle Wentworth. That wouldna be the worst o’ it, neither. Live in dreams for too long and ye go mad, ye can never wake up prop’ly, ye can never get the hang o’ reality again.’
Tiffany stared at him.
‘It’s happened before,’ said William.
‘I will get him back,’ said Tiffany quietly.
‘We doon’t doubt it,’ said Rob Anybody. ‘An’ wheree’er ye go, we’ll come with ye. The Nac Mac Feegle are afeared o’ nothing!’
A cheer went up, but it seemed to Tiffany that the blue shadows sucked all the sound away.
‘Aye, nothin’ exceptin’ lawyers mmph mmph,’ Daft Wullie tried to say, before Rob managed to shut him up.
Tiffany turned back to the line of hoofprints, and began to walk.
The snow squeaked unpleasantly underfoot.
She went a little way, watching the trees get realer as she approached them, and then looked around.
All the Nac Mac Feegles were creeping along behind her. Rob Anybody gave her a cheery nod. And all her footprints had become holes in the snow, with grass showing through.
The trees began to annoy her. The way things changed was more frightening than any monster. You could hit a monster, but you couldn’t hit a forest. And she wanted to hit something.
She stopped and scraped some snow away from the base of a tree and, just for a moment, there was nothing but greyness where it had been. As she watched, the bark grew down to where the snow was. Then it just stayed there, pretending it had been there all the time.
It was a lot more worrying than the grimhounds. They were just monsters. They could be beaten. This was . . . frightening . . .
She was second thinking again. She felt the fear grow, she felt her stomach become a red-hot lump, she felt her elbows begin to sweat. But it was . . . not connected. She watched herself being frightened, and that meant that there was still this part of herself, the watching part, that wasn’t.
The trouble was, it was being carried on legs that were. It had to be very careful.
And that was where it went wrong. Fear gripped her, all at once. She was in a strange world, with monsters, being followed by hundreds of little blue thieves. And . . . Black dogs. Headless horsemen. Monsters in the river. Sheep whizzing backwards across fields. Voices under the bed . . .
The terror took her. But, because she was Tiffany, she ran towards it, raising the pan. She had to get through the forest, find the Queen, get her brother, leave this place!
Somewhere behind her, voices started to shout —
She woke up.
There was no snow, but there was the whiteness of the bedsheet and the plaster ceiling of her bedroom. She stared at it for a while, then leaned down and peered under the bed.
There was nothing there but the guzunder. When she flung open the door of the doll’s house, there was no one inside but the two toy soldiers and the teddy bear and the headless dolly.
The walls were solid. The floor creaked like it always did. Her slippers were the same as they always were: old, comfortable and with all the pink fluff worn off.
She stood in the middle of the floor and said, very quietly, ‘Is there anybody there?’
Sheep baa’d on the distant hillside, but they probably hadn’t heard her.
The door squeaked open and the cat Ratbag came in. He rubbed up against her legs, purring like a distant thunderstorm, and then went and curled up on her bed.
Tiffany got dressed thoughtfully, daring the room to do something strange.
When she got downstairs, breakfast was cooking. Her mother was busy at the sink.
Tiffany darted out through the scullery and into the dairy. She scrambled on hands and knees around the floor, peering under the sink and behind cupboards.
‘You can come out now, honestly,’ she said.
No one came. She was alone in the room. She’d often been alone in the room, and had enjoyed it. It was almost her private territory. But now, somehow, it was too empty, too clean . . .
When she wandered back into the kitchen her mother was still standing by the sink, washing dishes, but a plate of steaming porridge had been put down in the one set place on the table.
‘I’ll make some more butter today,’ said Tiffany carefully, sitting down. ‘I might as well while we’re getting all this milk.’
Her mother nodded, and put a plate on the draining board beside the sink.
‘I haven’t done anything wrong, have I?’ said Tiffany.
Her mother shook her head.
Tiffany sighed. ‘And then she woke up and it was all a dream.’ It was just about the worst ending you could have to any story. But it had all seemed so real. She could remember the smoky smell in the pictsies’ cave, and the way . . . who was it? . . . oh, yes, he’d been called Rob Anybody . . . the way Rob Anybody had always been so nervous about talking to her.
It was strange, she thought, that Ratbag had rubbed up against her. He’d sleep on her bed if he could get away with it, but during the day he kept well out of Tiffany’s way. How odd . . .
There was a rattling noise near the mantelpiece. The china shepherdess on Granny’s shelf was moving sideways of its own accord and, as Tiffany watched with her porridge spoon halfway to her mouth, it slid off and smashed on the floor.
The rattling went on. Now it was coming from the big oven. She should see the door actually shaking on the hinges.
She turned to her mother, and saw her put another plate down by the sink. But it wasn’t being held in a hand . . .
The oven door burst open and slid across the floor.
‘Dinnae eat the porridge!’
Nac Mac Feegles spilled out into the room, hundreds of them, pouring across the tiles.
The walls were shifting. The floor moved. And now the thing turning round at the sink was not even human but just. . . stuff, no more human than a gingerbread man, grey as old dough, changing shape as it lumbered towards Tiffany.
The pictsies surged past her in a flurry of snow.
She looked up at the thing’s tiny black eyes.