Prologue
Every situation is worse when your room is on fire. Curling up with a nice book is worse . . . when your room is on fire. Eating cake in bed is worse . . . when your room is on fire. Dreaming about patting a silky-haired poodle named Rudrick McAloon is ruined . . . when your room is on fire. And this was exactly the dream Trilby Moffat was having when the smell of smoke hit her nose like a baby with a rubber fish.
Being a quick-witted girl with a terrific sense of smell and fast legs, Trilby sat bolt upright and leapt for the door without a second thought. She bounced back. The handle was hot. Scalding hot. So hot you could cook an egg on it (if you had time, and a spare egg).
‘It’s hot,’ she exclaimed as dark smoke slithered in from the gap above the door.
‘It’s a fire. Fire is hot,’ said a man in a top hat who had appeared unexpectedly. Trilby let out a sharp shriek. The man rolled his eyes. He dug his hand into his pocket and pulled out a long thin wooden pipe and lit its bowl. The scent of burning cartwheels and sandalwood filled the air.
‘This cat-and-mouse game of ours is now over,’ he said, taking three quick puffs.
Trilby gulped. The thing about being scared is this: it’s impossible to be scared about two things at once. For example, if you are terrified of heights, the best way to get over it is to jump in a hot air balloon with a tiger snake. You’ll soon forget about your fear of heights, although you may well end up with a crippling fear of tiger snakes.
The man in the hat blew a cloud of pale pink smoke across the room. Trilby was more afraid of him than the fire licking the door. Her heart pounded, her skin prickled. She bit her lip and took a deep breath.
‘Excuse me, but are you going to try and murder me, again?’
‘Murder? How ungrateful children can be, and after all I’ve done for you.’ The man sighed before continuing, ‘Today is your lucky day. I’m giving you a promotion.’
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