It's a short one this week.

***

“Which one would you like to hear about, your grace?”

Her mouth makes a small wrinkled O. “How many were there?”

“Two,” you say, glancing away wistfully.

“Then perhaps you should start with the first.”

“Clara,” you say. Naming your wives after the assistants from Doctor Who came to you earlier when you realised you are now a time traveller. “She thought our home was overrun with ghosts… telling her to do wicked things, and one day… she did.”

The old duchess gasped. “What did she do?”

“She shot my estate manager.”

“She did not!”

“I assure you, she did, your grace. But the tragedy didn’t end there.”

She grips your arm tighter than you expected. “Tell me.”

“She sold my mother’s jewellery, including a ring that had been passed down from Queen Charlotte herself.”

“No!”

“Yes, your grace. And then… then she did the unthinkable.”

“I dare not think it,” she whispers, and you only hear her because it’s suddenly quiet around you, all chatter halted in favour of eavesdropping on you and your story.

“The doctor prescribed pills to help with her… delusions. She took too many, and before the sun even rose on that foggy morning, she ran the length of our garden, and threw herself off the cliff.”

The dowager duchess isn’t the only one who gasps. You’re certain it’s poor etiquette to talk about such things at a ball, but the woman did ask for it after all. She wanted a tragedy, and you gave her one.

She wanted another. “What happened to your second wife?”

You examine the man for signs that he might be joking, but find none.

“Excuse me,” Bel says, dropping his paper onto the chair and heading to the adjoining room. “I must get ready if I’m to be dragged to a ball.”

“A ball?” you ask.

“Yes.” Uriel claps his hands. “Isn’t that fun?”

“To catch a killer?”

He nods. “And it will be exhilarating, I promise you.”

So much for safety.

“Not to be ungrateful,” you begin, “but I feel like this isn’t quite what Pride had in mind when he asked you to keep me safe.”

“Oh, don’t worry, you’ll be perfectly safe. As long as you stick by me. Wait here a moment.”

He follows his brother to what you assume is a bedroom.

This is a terrible idea, and you know it. It has danger and disaster written all over it, but you’re literally going to a ball with a man called Hazard. How much more blazingly obvious could it be that staying indoors is a much safer option? Still… a Victorian ball. How can you turn such an invitation down?

That’s easy. You just say no.

But that would be rude, wouldn’t it?

Uriel emerges from the bedroom a minute later with a gorgeous ball gown in one hand, and a gentlemen’s dress suit in the other. He weighs them up and down. “Which do you want to wear? Both should fit you.”

You choose the suit, since you’re not sure the dress is your colour. Besides, you don’t want to be preyed upon by ancient earls on their sixth wives. You’ve seen photos of real Victorian gentlemen, and they’re nothing like romance novels make them out to be. By the time Uriel emerges from the bedroom wearing a suit of his own that matches all of the peacock colours of his own furniture, you’re ready.

“Here.” Uriel holds out a pocket watch.

“Thank you.” You’re not sure how you’re supposed to wear it, so you slip it into your pocket when he’s not looking.

Uriel squints at you. “What exactly happened to your eye?”

“Does it still look bad?” you ask, having almost forgotten about it since Uriel’s impromptu fix. “I walked into a plant in the hallway downstairs.”

“Ah, Mrs Merrington and her wayward aspidistra.” Uriel presses his lips together. “A pair of menaces. It’s not too bad now… just a scratch. We won’t even need to make up a lie about it.”

“So, who will I be tonight?”

“You’ll be the Duke of Rosemont’s cousin… Viscount…” Uriel taps his lips. “Beresford.”

“There’s already a Beresford line,” Bel calls from the bedroom. “Choose something else.”

“I’m no good at names,” Uriel admits. “You choose.”

“What about Sheeran?” you suggest. “Edward Sheeran.”

“It suits you,” Bel says. “But steer clear of claims regarding the peerage. There’s a particular dowager duchess invited tonight who can sniff a lie like that at fifty paces. She’ll question you until your ears bleed.”

“Then you’ll be my cousin,” Uriel says. “Though if I’m to claim you publicly, you need to do something about your hair.”

“What’s wrong with my hair?”

Uriel grimaces, so you fix your hair to his satisfaction. He then presents you with a selection of fake facial hair, which you politely decline to Bel’s delight. You can hear him sniggering from the other room.

Uriel smiles broadly. “You look wonderful. Nobody will suspect a thing.”

“What would they suspect?” you ask.

“Precisely my point. You look so… harmless.”

“So I’ve been told,” you grumble.

“It’s a good thing in this game, believe me.”

“What game?”

“The game of detection… wheedling out deceit and betrayal.” Uriel takes on the mysterious tone of a hack fortune teller, and you wonder why he doesn’t make more effort to blend in if it would help so much in his line of work. “As I said, you and I are going to catch a killer… though hopefully not in the act.”

“What about me?” Bel asks, poking his head round the bedroom door.

“Yes, you too. If you ever actually get dressed,” Uriel grumbles.

“I’m nearly ready, but I could…” Bel grunts. “I could do with a little help getting this jacket on.”

“Peacock,” Uriel mutters, as he joins Bel in the bedroom.

You’ve never been inside a closed carriage as decadent as this one. The seats are upholstered in dark leather, the padded walls with violet silk. The windows are without a speck of dust or grime, which really isn’t the most impossible thing you’ve seen today, but it strikes you as very odd.

You sit opposite Bel and Uriel, your back to the horses, your belly tightening with nervous energy. You wedge your hands between your knees just to stop them shaking.

“You look nervous,” Uriel observes.

This makes you laugh. “You’re expecting me to help catch a killer when I don’t know what I’m looking for.”

“We’ll point out our mark when we get there,” Uriel says. “His name is Faultless Molvander.”

“His parents were decidedly premature in that regard,” Bel remarks.

Uriel nods. “What a name to live up to. He’s currently attempting to woo his third heiress.”

“What happened to the first two?”

“They’re dead,” Bel says, looking at you as if you’re a fool.

“I figured that much out, but how? And why do you think he did it?”

“He owes a lot of money to some particularly unsavoury characters,” says Bel. “One in particular is well known for writing everything down in a book of wagers, and he usually draws his victims in by blackmail. Unfortunately, we’ve been unable to verify it for ourselves, but we happen to know the entry for Molvander details the murders of his wives. It includes both the receipt for the poison that killed the first wife, and evidence from the man who bought the knife he used to kill the second.”

“The bloody bastard stabbed himself with it,” Uriel adds. “He pretended his wife was murdered during a burglary, but he was seen selling her family heirlooms. Heirlooms he claimed were stolen.”

“If it’s so obvious what he’s done, why is he still walking around a free man?” you ask.

“Most pertinently, his father has someone at the constabulary in his pocket, though we're not certain who it is yet.” Bel’s head wobbles with the motion of the carriage. “And an innocent man is locked up for the second murder. We were hired by his wife a month ago to bring the real murderer to justice.”

“So, how do you plan to catch him?”

“I was hoping you’d ask that,” Uriel says, his smile dazzling. “We have planted an heiress.”

“And she knows what she’s getting into?”

“Darling, Molvander may think he’s the cat in this game of his, but I assure you when it comes to Miss Duchesne, Molvander is the mouse.”

Your cheeks grow hot at Uriel’s reckless endearment. He couldn’t possibly get away with talking to people like that… not in this day and age.

He continues unperturbed. “She’s been working her magic for weeks, allowing him to woo her. She's expecting a marriage proposal any day now.”

“He’s in dire need of funds,” Bel explains. “More desperate than ever.”

“We’re of the opinion he’ll be confronted by his blackmailer tonight,” says Uriel.

“What do you need me for?” you ask.

“Unfortunately, Molvander is familiar with our work,” Uriel says.

“He avoids us wherever possible,” Bel adds.

“We’d like you to get close… to circulate a few rumours… to set your sights on our heiress as well.”

“It’s a good job I didn’t go for the dress, then,” you say.

“We would’ve made you an even more tempting heiress,” Uriel says. “Now tell me, can you dance?”

Dance? Like… fancy ballroom dancing and… quadrilles? Do they still do those?

Uriel frowns. “I gather from that terrified look on your face that you cannot?”

“I cannot,” you confirm.

“Find the largest potted plant in the room and hide behind it,” Bel advises. "Just try not to impale your other eye."

“You know very well that Lord Bertram will claim that spot before anyone else has the opportunity,” says Uriel. “When Lady Bertram is hosting, the poor man is so harassed by the time the event arrives, he spends most of the evening pretending to be his own butler.”

You laugh. “Is Lord Bertram a large man? Maybe I can use him for cover?”

“Alas, no. Though quite rotund, he is a short man with a peculiarly tiny head.”

Uriel seems to be the relentlessly chatty sort, but even Bel is warming to you now, so you ask, “What’s today’s date?”

Uriel’s jaw clamps shut for the first time since you met him.

“When is irrelevant,” says Bel.

You sigh. “That’s what the Duke of Rosemont said earlier… later.”

“Reluctant though I am to admit it, even Rosemont is right upon occasion,” Bel says, looking away out of the carriage window.

For a couple of minutes, you sit in silence. The sounds intrude from outside—the clopping of horse hooves, the bump of wheels on cobbles, and the hubbub of people still milling about on the darkened streets. Your body bounces and shakes with every revolution of the wheels, every rocking motion of the carriage.

“I have an idea,” you tell them, your thoughts spinning into a story of your own, a story that will prompt Molvander into action. “One that will take yours further. Plus, it will have the convenient side-effect of explaining why I can’t dance. But I’ll need to borrow your fancy cane.”

Uriel grins. “It’s yours.”

He and his brother lean forward to hear your idea.

“What if Molvander isn’t the only one with skeletons of dead wives in his closet? What if Edward Sheeran is also looking for an heiress?” Sorry, Ed. “Perhaps his third?”

Bel smiles. “There’s nothing like the promise of rivalry to get a man like Molvander’s blood boiling.”

“But how did you get your limp?” Uriel asks.

“During the attack on my carriage, of course,” you say. “The one that killed my poor wife.”

“Nothing gets the tongues of these women wagging faster than pity,” Uriel says. “Bravo!”

Bel nods. “It’s a fine idea.”

You lower your head with a grin, proud of yourself for coming up with such a good idea. “What if someone asks me a question I can’t answer?”

You’ll be able to answer anything, Uriel says inside your head.

It makes you jump. “How are you doing that?”

“I have a clairvoyant friend standing by,” he tells you. “They’ll act as a conduit between us, keeping communication open.”

“Will I meet them?”

“Unfortunately, not. It’s not safe for them… but they’ll be nearby.”

“Fair enough,” you say, wishing you had superpowers like that. “Are they nearby now?”

“Yes,” he says without embellishment.

“Anything else I should know?”

“Only that it will likely be an unbearable crush,” he says.

Uriel had not been joking.

You try not to gape as you take in the scene. “There must be a thousand people in here.”

Such a scene would not be legal in the twenty-first century. Even without the sheer volume of highly flammable fabric draped around every woman in attendance, the ballroom of the Duke of Carlisle would be a fire hazard.

Dazzling chandeliers hang from the ceiling, and matching candelabras sprout from statues set in alcoves. Arched windows, close to fifteen feet high run along the length of the ballroom on the left-hand side, the doors of the central window open to the terrace. A band is playing, and guests are already dancing. Just as Bel said, there are plenty of large potted plants to hide behind, and you think you’ve spotted Lord Bertram already, dressed in green.

Uriel leans into you with a smirk when he realises who you’re looking at. “I told the man he’d blend in better if he wore green. And what do you know?”

You hobble nervously down the stairs when your fake name is called out along with Uriel and Bel’s names. You can feel everybody’s eyes on you as you descend into the crowd of curious strangers. You spend the next thirty minutes being passed from one pack of women to another.

“Oh, Christ,” Uriel mutters. “Felicity Matcham is coming this way. She’s a harridan. Be careful.”

“So, you’re the one they’re all wittering on about, are you?” the woman asks, her tone imperious as she squints at you through a pair of pince-nez attached to a brooch by a gold chain. “I can’t say I see what the fuss is about.”

“Good evening, your grace,” Uriel says, bowing politely.

“Ah, Mr Hazard. With you, is he?”

“Indeed. Duchess Markham, may I present my cousin, Mr Edward Sheeran.”

“Good evening, your grace,” you say.

“Well, I admit I expected more than to have you parrot your cousin, Mr Sheeran.”

You can’t help but glance up at the word parrot, since the dowager duchess appears to be wearing most of one on her head, a profusion of gaudy feathers sprouting from a hair comb. “It would be presumptuous of me to assume I have anything to say that would interest you.”

The old woman’s lips twitch. “Oh, you’re a humorous one like your cousin, are you? Well, don’t run away with the idea that you’re here for a good time. Tell me about your tragic wife.”

***

For more ridiculous Victorian names, mostly taken from the area I live in, check out the bonus content for this episode on my website, here.

Password: HAZARD

The stench is unbearable. Like sewers and rotting fish.

“How is this worse than being accosted by pirates?” you ask, as you follow Pride away from the stinking river, narrowly avoiding a rolling barrel.

“Watch it!” a man yells at you.

You apologise, moving closer to Pride. You’re in the heart of a busy dock, where small boats ferry cargo and passengers ashore from huge sailing ships.

Everyone is yelling. Men are dangling from winches in the open upper floors of warehouses, directing those below. Yet more men crowbar crates open to examine the contents—vibrant silk as far as you can tell—before nailing them shut again.

You wonder idly if any of these barrels are full of rum since you’ve developed a bit of a taste for the flavour, though not its effects, but you’re distracted from your thoughts by the sight of a tarpaulin laid out on the warehouse floor, piled high with tusks.

It doesn’t get much quieter even as you move away from the dock. The narrow streets are swarming with carts displaying all kinds of wares, including stacks of crockery. Who thought wheeling crockery across cobbles was a good idea?

“Why are we still not back?” you ask.

Pride shakes his head. “This is a real problem. I need to…” His gaze darts around, peering from one yelling street vendor to another. “Wait here. Do not move from this spot.”

You stand beneath a shop’s awning, hoping the deep shadows will make you invisible, and glance quickly at your clothes. Victorian, you’re certain. Decent, but not too fancy. Kane should’ve put a spell on Pride’s clothes too. The man sticks out wherever he goes, but nobody pays him much attention, which you find curious. Did Kane put a spell on him after all? One that helps him blend in?

Pride speaks to a man for a minute or so, then rushes back to you. “I need to get you somewhere safe while I figure out what went wrong with the portal.”

The narrow cobbled streets and cramped houses don’t look very safe to you. A black carriage sweeps by, and a haughty man sneers down at you from the window. Even his sweaty moustache looks displeased to encounter you, the thin ends drooping down over the corners of his downturned lips.

“I don’t want to be left in a strange place in… Victorian times?” you guess.

Pride bites his lip and looks sideways. “We’re back in London. That’s all I’m saying.”

“But where—”

“I have an idea. Come on.” Pride reaches for your hand, glancing up at a street sign on the edge of a building. “This way.”

“You’re sure you know where you’re going?” you ask.

“This is my old manor,” he says, dragging you along the cobbles. “That was the old London Dock behind us, and most of the street names are the same. We’re actually not all that far from Kane’s shop, so… whatever, I can’t take you there.”

“Is he there?” you ask. “Is he immortal like Cecilia?”

He stops suddenly, and you bash into his arm. “Listen, you can’t talk about her where we’re going. She… she doesn’t know yet.”

“Is she here? What is she?” you ask. “Is she a vampire?”

“I’m not answering about specific people, but yes, there are vampires here.”

You glance around as Pride drags you onwards. “Here? Like, right here, right now?”

“Most likely. We’re in the East End, which is a bit of a breeding ground, but you won’t encounter many this close to the river.”

“What else is there?” you ask. “What are you?”

“That’s classified,” he says.

“That’s what Rosemont said. He’s not a vampire, is he?”

Pride laughs, but it fizzles into a strangled groan. “No, not a vampire.”

“But he is immortal?”

“Stop asking questions.” Pride pulls you around the corner of a warehouse and across the road to a terraced house, only the top of which glows orange in the setting sun. The rest of the terrace is overshadowed by the warehouse. There’s a gigantic fern in the downstairs window, and a woman sitting beside it, eyeing you curiously.

Pride dashes up the steps and knocks on the door.

“Who lives here?” you ask, wondering who the woman is.

Before Pride can answer, the woman opens the door. “Yes?”

“Good evening,” says Pride. “We’re here to see Mr Hazard and Mr Balthazar.”

“Do you have an appointment?” she asks.

“No, but we were sent by the Duke of Rosemont,” says Pride.

“Oh. In you come, then,” she says.

You shuffle into the house after Pride, and a large plant looms at you out of nowhere, stabbing you in the eye. The plant pot wobbles on its column—Pride grabs it to avert disaster—as you try to rescue your gored eyeball.

“You may wait here,” the woman says before stomping up the stairs, her skirts fisted in one hand, while the other glides up the banister. The floor creaks overhead, and a door clicks open loudly before the woman gets a second knock in. Her voice carries. “You have two visitors. From the Home Office.”

Pride hisses. “Balls!”

“He told me he was Home Secretary once,” you whisper, blinking your furiously watering eye. “Is once now?”

Pride doesn't answer.

“Send them up, if you would,” comes a voice from upstairs.

“Right away, sir. Will you be wanting tea?”

“That would be lovely, Mrs Merrington. Thank you.”

The woman descends the stairs with a dreamy smile. “Mr Hazard will see you now. Turn right at the top of the stairs, and double-back on yourselves. You want the room at the front of the house.”

Pride thanks her, and you follow him upstairs, one hand over your eye.

A pale, flamboyant man with flowing red hair, wearing forest green velvet lounges in the doorway to the room at the front of the house. He frowns as he looks you and Pride up and down. “You’re from the Home Office?”

“Actually, we told her Rosemont sent us,” Pride says. “The rest was an assumption on her part, I’m afraid, Mr Hazard.”

The redheaded man arches one eyebrow and steps out of their way. “You had better come in, then.”

The room is brighter than you’d ever imagined a Victorian sitting room would look, with orange curtains, and uncomfortable looking furniture upholstered in various shades of peacock, from emerald to turquoise to indigo.

Another man rises from one of two twin armchairs beside the fireplace, laying his pipe on a side table.

You wrinkle your nose at the scent of pipe tobacco, though he mustn’t have lit his pipe long ago because the air in the room is clear.

“This is my associate, Mr Balthazar,” Mr Hazard says, waving a hand towards the Chinese man who looks both inconvenienced and barely awake.

Pride returns Mr Balthazar’s nod. “You might want to sit back down. Both of you.”

Mr Hazard’s mouth drops open in alarm. “Has something happened to—”

Pride raises a hand to stall him. “Nothing like that, I promise.”

The two men drop into their chairs by the fire, Hazard waving vaguely towards a blue settee with spindly legs that looks like it might buckle under the pressure of Pride’s enormous frame. You sit anyway, and the settee gives a creak when Pride adds his weight to the equation.

You wonder how Pride’s going to get the pair of you out of this one. What wondrous story he’ll come up with to explain your predicament.

“The truth is…” Pride begins. “We’ve met before. I know you as Uriel and Bel.”

“I think I’d remember that,” Hazard says with a smile that you think is supposed to be either charming or flirtatious.

“I also know three of your sons,” says Pride. “Gethin, War—”

“No!” Hazard holds up his hand.

“Yes, I know. You don’t talk about him.”

Hazard and Balthazar share a look.

“What do you mean three of my sons?” Hazard says. “I only have three sons.”

“Shit!” Pride mutters. “Alright, this is the part that I wouldn’t believe myself if I weren’t living through it. How much do you know about the artefacts Rosemont confiscates in the name of… Heaven’s Fury?” he finishes off in a whisper.

“Never heard of it,” says Balthazar.

“Bel, I think the jig is up,” Hazard says before returning his gaze to Pride. “What are you getting at?”

“We have an object that allows us to translocate from one place to another,” Pride explains.

Again a look passes between your two hosts.

“The problem is, it’s not working as it should.” Pride pulls the floppy frisbee out of your bum-bag. “It’s not only taking us to different places, but to different times.”

“What do you mean, different times?” asks Balthazar.

The discussion is interrupted by a knock at the door, followed by the housekeeper and her tea tray, which she leaves on the table without a word.

“Thank you, Mrs Merrington,” your hosts echo as the woman sees herself to the door.

As soon as it’s closed, Uriel leaps from his chair and presses his ear to the door. “She’s going downstairs,” he whispers, then heads to the table to pour the tea. “She can be dreadfully nosey.”

When everyone is settled with their teacups, Bel says, “You didn’t answer my question.”

“We’re from the future,” Pride blurts.

Hazard simply frowns, but Balthazar lets out a belly laugh. “Do you take us for fools?”

“I promise we’ve met before,” says Pride.

The two men are looking at you with the same degree of suspicion they’re bestowing on Pride.

“What about you?” Balthazar asks, his eyebrows raised disdainfully. “Have we met you before?”

Your watery eye spasms when you shake your head. “Absolutely not, no. I just came along for the adventure, and the next thing I know, there’s pirates and incredibly hideous underwater fish-beasts, and now I’m stuck here. I’d rather be at home watching YouTube.”

Hazard’s face crumples in confusion. “You… tube?”

“No spoilers!” Pride cries.

“Sorry,” you say, sipping your tea carefully. You expected it to taste worse. “I just don’t want to be stuck in Victorian London. No offence, but it reeks.”

Pride turns back to Hazard and Balthazar with renewed enthusiasm and desperation to be believed. “I work with your niece, Cecilia.”

“Cecilia is just a child, and—”

“Not anymore. Though she is still a pickpocket,” Pride tells him with a smile.

Hazard puffs up proudly. “The best bloody pickpocket in the whole of London.”

“You’re prouder than you should be about that,” says Balthazar. “You’ll encourage her.”

“Nonsense. I don’t encourage her in person, but of course I’m proud.”

“Wait, you’re Cecilia’s hot uncle?” you ask, your eye twitching so profusely now, one could be forgiven for thinking you were trying to communicate in Morse code.

Pride glares at you. “Didn’t I tell you to shut it about Cecilia?”

You mime zipping your lips.

“Hot?” Hazard asks. “Well, yes, it is rather stifling now you mention it.”

“Now they mention it?” Balthazar squawks. “I’ve been mentioning it since we moved back in.”

“It’s only temporary,” Hazard promises.

“You’ve been saying that for years.”

“And I always mean it.” Hazard sips his tea. “After all, we don’t stay here all year round. But the regular folk don’t want to come out to Mayfair, Bel. They’re more comfortable when they think we’re like them.”

Balthazar blurts out a laugh, returning his newspaper to his lap. “You can’t possibly believe they think you’re one of them. Lord, brother. You are many things, but I never pegged you as thoroughly deluded.”

That’s when you realise that these two are also definitely immortal. Because Kane told you the redhead or his inexplicably Chinese brother usually bring adventurers to his shop. And you are looking at them right now.

Hazard and Balthazar.

Uriel and Bel.

You’re certain there’s a Uriel in the bible, but… no, that’s too far-fetched even for this crazy situation you’ve found yourself in. Victorians had all sorts of unusual names… like Friendless, Mineral, and Uriah. Why not Uriel?

Uriel ignores his brother’s insult, turning to Pride instead. “And you’re from the future, you say?”

“Tell me you’re not falling for this,” says Bel.

“How else could he know Cecilia?” Uriel argues.

“He could be as gifted in detective work as we are.”

“Ah, a rival?” Uriel says, as if delighted.

Pride smacks a hand to his forehead. “No, I’m not a rival. Believe me, I’m not any kind of detective. I also know your other brothers.” He casts a sideways glance at you. “Casual acquaintances.”

Bel makes a production of closing his newspaper. “Which brothers?”

“Raphael,” Pride says. “I put him in touch with some people to crew his ship. And Rosemont. He’s still… piddling about at the Home Office.”

“See, Bel?” Uriel cries. “He does know them.”

Bel still looks suspicious. “Who else?”

“I haven’t met any more of your brothers, but I know Uriel’s son very well. He runs a warehouse. An empire of warehouses, in fact.”

“And what does he keep in these warehouses?” Bel asks.

“I’m not sure I should discuss that in front of my friend here, but would you believe me if I said he houses belongings for people who need long-term storage solutions? Very long term.”

Bel sighs. “I’m not saying I believe you, but… what is it you need from us? Why are you here right now?”

“My friend needs a safe place to stay while I look into why we keep landing in the wrong time,” Pride says. “You’re the only people I know in the area.”

Uriel beams at you. “We would love to host your friend, wouldn’t we, Bel?”

Bel eyes you with more displeasure than you deserve, though not quite on par with the snooty man in the carriage. “We would be delighted.”

Pride lets out a sigh of relief. “Excellent, thank you so much.” He places his huge hands on your shoulders. “I’ll be as quick as I can, but it might take a few hours.”

“You’re going right now?” you squeak.

“No time like the present, and it’ll be dark soon. I don’t want to be working all night.”

As soon as Pride is gone, Uriel says, “Let me do something about that eye.”

Before you can respond, he shoves a wad of something cool and dark green against your eye. You stand still while the wad of slimy something cools your eye. It’s actually refreshing and… yes, your eye is starting to feel better.

“There,” Uriel says. “Better?”

You glance down at his hand, which is no longer holding whatever that soggy eye-healing goop was. “Yes,” you admit, though you don’t ask him if your eye just absorbed the gunk, because you really don't want to know.

Uriel gestures to the table by the window, which is wearing a lurid orange tablecloth to match the curtains. “Do you like pudding?”

You take a seat and nod. “I love pudding.”

Uriel doesn’t even offer any to his brother, sharing the stodgy, dark berry pudding and custard between two bowls and pushing one in front of you. He hands you a dainty spoon. The pudding tastes divine, its texture soft and moist, the berries a perfect mixture of sweet and tart, and the custard thick and creamy. You’re in heaven for all of five minutes when Uriel says, “We need to get you dressed.”

For a moment, you wonder if Kane’s spell has caused all your clothes to fall off, but no… you’re still dressed.

“Uriel!” Bel warns.

“We can’t change our plans now,” Uriel says. “Molvander is sure to be there tonight, and I don’t intend to miss him.”

You glance between Uriel and Bel. “What’s going on? Where are we going?”

“Tonight,” Uriel says dramatically, “you and I are going to catch a killer.”

“Well, this has never happened before,” Pride mutters.

You squeeze yourself closer to him, panic rising in your chest. “Pirates?”

“Well, yes… but no. I’m talking about the time shifts.”

“Time what?”

“I hate to break it to you, adventure buddy, but this ain’t twenty-first century London anymore.”

“You speak English?” the captain asks, a definite angry growl to his voice.

At least, you assume he’s the captain, even though he’s not wearing a fancy hat. He sounds Irish, and the only Irish people you’ve ever met have been exceptionally friendly. You’re hoping for a miracle here. These people don’t look much like they believe in miracles.

“Aye,” says Pride, getting into the whole pirate thing, as his meaty arm clamps around you. “This here is my friend, Ed… Ed Sheeran.”

You try not to roll your eyes, but really? Ed Sheeran?

“We won’t remember your names,” another pirate says menacingly, his blue eyes like chips of ice in his too pale face. Pirates should be weather-beaten, shouldn’t they? With tanned, wind-whipped skin? Not this man. He looks like he could scare the wind back where it came from and intimidate the sun back behind the clouds.

You glance up at Pride, your tongue terrified into staying right inside your mouth where it can’t get you into any more trouble than you’ve already found yourself in. He gives you a reassuring smile before turning back to the captain. He’s about to speak when two men in black drop clean out of the sky, landing on the deck with a thud.

“If you break through the bloody deck, it’s coming out of your share of the loot,” cries a man who, though not terribly large, has arms and shoulders that could probably snap you as if you were a biscuit. “How many times do I have to tell you?”

“Calm down, bosun!” the captain says. “And you two, behave yourselves.”

On closer look, the two men in black are twins, and their long cloaks feature ruffled feathers around their necks. They stare at you suspiciously, and your nerves fizz uncomfortably. Why aren’t they staring at Pride like that? After all, he’s taking up way more space than you are.

The captain glares at you. “Ed Sheeran don’t sound much like a Spanish name.”

You frown because you have no idea how he made that leap. “Who said I’m Spanish?”

Now, everyone is frowning, but those swords aren’t lowering, not even an inch.

“Why are you wearing Spanish merchant garb if you’re not Spanish?” he asks.

You sigh, becoming aware for the first time since your fear climbed down from the crow’s nest that you’re wearing a hat, and far too many tight clothes.

Kane’s stupid spell.

You glance down at your attire. It’s the fanciest thing you’ve ever worn in your life. The flashy jacket and waistcoat are embroidered in metallic thread and decorated with gold buttons, and the knickerbockers cling to your thighs like a second skin.

You really wish they wouldn’t.

Your calves itch beneath the white stockings, and you repress the urge to scratch them because if the thought of you being Spanish is enough to make the pirates murderous, you’d rather not risk the suspicion that you have fleas.

Pride comes to your rescue. “I stole these clothes when I smuggled Ed out of… jail.”

Your rescue.

Or your ruin.

The captain lowers his sword a fraction, and so does everyone else. “Hand all your weapons to the quartermaster.”

A tall man with dark, curly hair and golden skin steps forward, eyeing Pride with interest, and holds out his hand.

“We don’t have weapons,” you say.

That gets a laugh out of the pirates. “Don’t have weapons?”

More laughter.

“You can check if you want,” says Pride, raising his arms in surrender.

The quartermaster steps forward with a flirtatious grin. “It will be my pleasure.”

The bosun lets out a loud huff. “Give it a rest, Murphy.”

The quartermaster ignores him, and you raise your arms when he’s finished groping Pride. He pats you down swiftly. “No weapons,” he confirms. “But he’s right.” He nods at the menacing pirate who said they wouldn’t remember your names. “We’ll either give you new names, so we don’t have to remember your old ones, or—”

“You’ll be too dead to need names,” the menacing pirate concludes.

You grimace.

“For the love of Balor’s manly man chest,” Murphy says, “What’s got into you today, Brady?”

The menacing pirate scowls at Murphy, then looks wistfully out to sea.

A large black man with glowing skin, wearing a fancy coat of midnight blue, leans sideways to whisper to Murphy. “Eilidh’s not talking to him.”

Pride is oblivious to this quiet conversation. “I’m Amy Winehouse,” he says, and you try not to laugh. Out of the side of his mouth, he whispers, “They’ll just forget anyway.”

“Nobody gets a free ride on my ship,” the captain says. “I’m Captain Ferran Quinn, but you probably know me as… the Sea-Wolf.”

He snaps his jaws in a parody of a bite, and the crew laugh.

You are terrified of this man, and you give a weak, twitchy smile.

He glares at you.

Then Pride says, “Ah, the Sea-Wolf. I’ve heard you’re fearsome.”

The crew cheers.

“And brave,” Pride adds.

The crew cheers again.

“And clever!”

For a moment, there is silence.

Then Captain Quinn’s glare asserts itself in the direction of his crew, and they all burst out laughing. “Bloody bastards, the lot of you,” the captain mutters. “Quartermaster, find these men some rum and put them to work.”

Mark this down on your calendar as the only time your boss will ever expect you to drink alcohol on the job.

Two hours later, your arms ache from scrubbing the bulkheads, your fingers are wrinklier than a bag of walnuts, your stomach is revolting against both the waves and the rum, and the entire crew has taken to calling you Pedro.

The captain disappeared below deck as soon as he issued his instructions to the quartermaster and hasn’t been seen since. That’s the first reason your nerves have settled a bit. The second reason is Zebrascus Murphy, the friendly quartermaster.

He has a way with people that helps them settle down, even if his eyes wander occasionally. You try not to judge him by twenty-first century standards. After all, this is three hundred years ago, or thereabouts.

You’re certain there’s a story between the quartermaster and the bosun, because every time Zeb—he insists that you call him Zeb—guides you by your shoulder, the bosun narrows his eyes and huffs.

“Don’t mind Ward,” Zeb says, nodding in the bosun’s direction. “It’s me he doesn’t like.”

You’re certain that’s not true, but you don’t say anything in case you’ve got it wrong.

Pride is a natural at sailing. He’s been scurrying up and down the ratlines for at least an hour, doing everything Ward tells him, though you’re sure the bosun’s just trying to keep him away from Zeb. You, on the other hand, can’t bring yourself to climb up there.

The twins are sitting in the crow’s nest, legs dangling over the edge like they’re doing nothing more dangerous than sitting on a park bench, but you can see the mast swaying with the ship.

“Pedro,” Zeb begins, taking the wheel from the man in the embroidered blue coat. “Let me show you how to steer the ship.”

The ship must be a hundred foot long, if not more. You have no business steering anything of this size, even if the chances of hitting anything this far out at sea are zero.

You sidle closer and nod.

“Put your hand here,” he says, tapping the edge of the handle facing upwards. “Feel the groove in the top there? That’s the king spoke. It means the rudder’s straight… so the ship’s going in a straight line.”

Zeb directs your other hand to the spoke two to the right of the king spoke, and you grip the smooth, worn wood. “You wait for the bosun’s call, but he’ll be calling port any minute to make most of the winds here. He’ll not call hard over, so don’t turn it too much.”

He glances over his shoulder at Ward, who’s glaring up at the sailors standing on the beams holding the sails. “Ward will certainly make no bones about telling you you’re doing it wrong, so listen carefully, and do as he says.”

You nod. “If you know what he’s going to call, why don’t you do it now?”

“Because he’s reefing the sails,” says Zeb. “Too much wind and the mast’ll be in danger of snapping. Got to get the balance right. And loosen your arms a bit. You look like Medusa’s been at you.”

You keep hold of the steering wheel as you shake your shoulders a little. “When will he—”

“Port a little,” yelled Ward.

You turn the wheel, glancing up at Zeb.

He nods. “Bit more than that. You’re steering a ship, not a wheelbarrow.”

You turn the wheel until Ward calls, “Hold her steady.”

The wind hits the shortened sails just right, and the ship surges forward as you hold her steady. Your hair whips around your face, finding its way into your mouth when you smile.

“You’re looking very happy with yourself,” Pride says, joining you on the quarterdeck.

“How are you getting on with the ratlines, Amy?” Zeb asks before you can say anything.

“Getting used to it,” says Pride, eyeing Zeb sharply. “How come you never remember their name?”

Zeb glances around the mostly empty quarterdeck. “Who?”

Pride points at you.

“Oh, them?”

“Yes,” Pride cries. “Ed Sheeran.”

“They don’t look like an Ed,” Zeb says matter-of -factly.

Pride’s eyebrows try to take off. “But I, a seventeen-stone man, look like an Amy to you?”

“Aye.” Zeb nods. “Aye, definitely an Amy… It’s the eyebrows.”

You stifle a laugh, but just as you’re about to lose the battle against your sense of humour, something crashes into the side of the ship, and to your horror, your hands slip off the steering wheel.

“Watch your hands, Murphy!” the bosun calls, but Zeb’s hands are already on the wheel, tugging it hard to the left.

“I’m sorry,” you shout over the frantic crashing of the waves around the ship. “What did I hit?” You grimace. “I didn’t hit a whale, did I?”

Ward is yelling his head off at those in the sails, and Brady is ushering a group of pirates below deck.

“What are they doing?” you ask.

“Let him concentrate,” Pride tells you. “They’re probably going to the gun deck for—”

“They’re not going to shoot the whale?”

“It’s not a whale,” says Zeb, hands tight on the wheel, lips pressed into a grim line with the strain of keeping the boat from tipping over. “It’s a—”

“Quartermaster!” the captain yells. “What the hell is going on out there?”

The ship lurches again, though this time it tips at the prow, as if the swell of a great wave is lifting it.

It is not a great wave.

“Orgrendel!” shouts a voice from the crow’s nest.

“Bugger!” the captain growls, then calls out, “How many?”

“At least a dozen,” the man in the crow’s nest shouts.

Zeb says, “Brady took the gunners below for—”

“Cannon fire will just piss them off,” says Quinn.

“What are orgrendel?” you ask.

“Mighty pests,” says Zeb. “If they can’t tip us overboard, they’ll gnaw their way through the hull to get to us.”

“I did not sign up for this,” you tell Pride.

“Are they demons?” Pride asks.

“Well, of course, they’re bloody demons,” says Quinn.

For a minute, you wonder why Pride wants to know such a thing, then you remember the whistle in your bum-bag. You’re scrambling for it when the ship lists to the side.

You slam to the deck, sliding down until you hit the bulwark, and grab the closest secured rope. The whistle falls from your hand, skittering across the deck, getting closer to a small gutter designed to drain seawater from the deck.

You scramble across the swaying deck, throwing yourself onto the whistle to stop its progress towards the sea. Your fingers wrap around it, and you sigh in relief.

But through the gap in the side of the ship, you see awful red eyes with tiny pupils, set within a gelatinous white face full of needle-sharp teeth. The creature is climbing up the side of the ship, and didn’t the lookout say there were at least a dozen of them?

“We’ve got a breach!” someone yells.

You pull the whistle to your lips and blow as hard as you can. The creature that was a second from hoisting itself over the gunwale screams, despite the whistle making no noise whatsoever, it’s pale, bony arms protecting its head as it falls back into the sea. You blow again, and more screams surge up from below.

“They’re retreating,” the lookout calls.

Zeb has the ship under control now, and when you glance over the side, you see a thousand human-sized forms melding into a dozen or so whale-sized creatures just below the surface.

You glance over your shoulder at Pride with a wobbly smile. “It worked.”

Someone, somewhere, is still screaming.

“Is there still one on board?” asks Pride.

“That’ll be Foley,” says Quinn. “Ah, there he is.”

A horned head pops out of the hatch of the main deck. “What in the name of Balor’s hairy arse was that?”

You try not to stare, but there’s a real-life, talking demon on the ship. A grey-faced, yellow-eyed, blue-horned demon, cursing like a… well, like a sailor.

“Sorry,” you tell him. “I was just trying to get rid of the orgrendel.”

Pride nods frantically back and forth between you and the bum-bag, his eyes wide.

Oh. You stuff the whistle back into the bag before the pirates catch a glimpse of it.

Quinn offers you more rum as thanks for your help, but you decline. After the severe swaying of the ship, your stomach is a little delicate. You decide a pirate life is not for you.

Pride has no such reservations, downing a tankard of rum like it’s water.

“We need to get going,” you tell him, just as Foley the demon starts dancing around the deck to the hornpipe, his feet fast as lightning.

“They’re not hammered enough yet,” Pride whispers. “We can’t just disappear.”

“Why not? We just arrived, and nobody said anything.”

“You’re right,” Pride says, clapping his thighs and jumping to his feet. “We’re away.”

Several groans of disappointment meet your ears above the waves.

“Three cheers for the orgrendel purgers!” Zeb calls out.

You laugh as the pirates cheer.

“This way,” Pride says, tugging you towards the prow of the ship by your fancy Spanish jacket.

You pass a large man with a hook for a hand, who gives you a wave. When you’re safely tucked away behind the focsle, obscured from everyone’s view, Pride drops the portal onto the deck.

“Since I know very well your name’s not really Amy, what is it?” you ask.

“Kane says I’m not allowed to introduce myself by my full name ever again.”

“And you always do what he says?”

“When he’s helping me blend in, yes. Besides, it’s not worth the risk. Last time, he turned me into a mushroom.”

“Is that a fungi joke?”

“I wish. Soup almost ate me.” Pride gestures to the portal. “In you get.”

Just before you jump, a ghostly female voice whispers, “Good luck!”

You feel a bit silly huddling in a shop doorway about to jump into an invisible hole in the ground, but nothing can stop you now. You’re getting the hang of this adventuring malarkey.

You drop through the portal, the ground suddenly solid beneath your feet. There are no welcoming scents here, just the subtle waft of aftershave, which seems to be coming from the room ahead of you.

Pride is nowhere to be seen.

Stepping forward to hover in the doorway, all you can see is a central fireplace surrounded by comfortable armchairs, all of which appear empty, but what is drawing your eye is the series of floor-to-ceiling windows circling the room and the intense blue glow coming through them.

“Where am I now?” you mutter to yourself as you cross the threshold.

“That’s classified.”

You jump at the sound, peering around the circular room.

A man is staring at you over a pair of gold-rimmed glasses. “Looks like you took a wrong turn.” He looks you up and down, and you wonder what Kane’s magic has done to your clothes this time, but you’re still wearing the jumpsuit. He goes back to reading his paper. “Take your frisbee and go.”

“You know about that?”

“Of course I know about that.”

You move further into the room. “But you’re not going to take it from me?”

“As long as you promise not to get into trouble with it,” he says. “I don’t want to be chasing a púca smuggler around Europe anytime soon.”

“I have no idea what a púca is,” you tell him, trying to avoid promising anything, but his intense blue eyes quickly wear you down. “I promise,” you say, even though you really shouldn’t.

“Because I’ll come after you if you do.”

You gulp and nod. “Who are you?”

“Let’s just say I was Home Secretary a time or two, and it’s still my job to keep artefacts like that frisbee off the streets.”

“Why aren’t you taking it, then?” you ask.

He lowers his newspaper. “Honestly? You look harmless.”

You bristle at the accusation. You’re as fierce as a tiger, bold as a lion, swift as a...

“You cowered at a bun-throw.”

Okay, he’s got you there.

“I’ve seen more fight in a noodle,” he goes on, flapping his broadsheet newspaper into a more readable position.

You shuffle sideways, trying to catch the date. You’ve been curious ever since Violet mentioned the timeline.

The man notices what you’re doing and lowers the paper, wise to your game. “When is irrelevant.”

Pride bursts into the room behind you. “Sorry, I took so long. An old guy started asking directions, and I had to wait for him to move on before I…” He catches sight of your surroundings. “How the hell did you end up here? We need to leave. We can’t be…” He straightens, cutting himself off when he spots the man sitting in the armchair, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallows hard. “E-Evening, your grace.”

“Evening?” the man queries. “It’s barely afternoon.”

Pride frowns. “Is it?”

His grace—whoever he is—stares at Pride so intently, it makes you uncomfortable. “Have we met?”

Pride glances sideways. “Have we?”

“Well, you know who I am, so I assume so,” the man says.

“We, uh… we met in passing… at the Home Office,” Pride tells him.

“You’ll forgive me,” the man says. “I meet so many people.”

You’re not sure how anyone who looks like Jason Momoa just raided Indiana Jones’ wardrobe could ever be forgotten.

“Of course,” says Pride. “We’ll just be on our way.”

“Don’t make me come after you!” the man yells as Pride drags you through the closest door, which turns out to be a cupboard with an old painting of an angel in it. An angel wearing a yellow nightdress and sporting golden curls all the way down to his buttocks. You and Pride are mesmerised by it for long seconds.

“Who was that man?” you ask.

“He goes by many names,” Pride says mysteriously.

“Pick one.”

“The Duke of Rosemont,” he finally says, throwing the portal frisbee onto the floor. He squints at it. “Weird. The coordinates have more digits than usual.”

“Is that a problem?”

Pride kicks the edge of the portal. “Shouldn’t be.”

You glance down at it, but you can’t even see the coordinates he’s talking about.

“There! Sorted.” Pride offers a grin, swinging his arm towards the portal. “After you.”

You jump in without fear now you know what to expect, but this is nothing like you expected. You land on the deck of a ship, far out to sea, Pride appearing beside you a second later. Before you can take your next breath, a dozen men surround you, swords drawn and pointed directly at your throat.

You wake inside an egg yolk, immediately closing your eyes to the sunny onslaught.

“Where the hell am I?” you mutter to yourself.

There’s an answering groan from the pipes, and the radiator says something like, “pf-rrrr-glug.” But you don’t speak radiator, so you don’t know what it means. But you do remember that you took Violet up on her offer of a room last night. You just don't recall it being so yellow.

You sit up and swing your legs out of bed, your eyes still bleary in the face of the objectionably yellow room. It seems whatever magic Kane cast upon your clothes before you left his shop is finally adjusting to your needs. Last night, it provided you with soft bed socks and a fluffy onesie with billy goat horns, which admittedly offered limited sleeping positions since even squidgy goat horns are about as comfortable as one might imagine.

“I’m getting up now,” you tell your clothes.

Your clothes remain, resolutely, a goat.

You walk to the bedroom door, hoping your clothes get the message, but when you pull the door open, you’re still a goat, and the twin teenage boys you encountered in the dining room last night are staring up at you in alarm. They’re crouching on the floor, planting an array of tin cans and plastic cups outside your door.

They stand quickly, hiding their hands behind their backs, as if you didn’t just catch them red-handed trying to prank you.

You step over the obstacle as gracefully as you can manage while wearing a goat suit, and head for the stairs.

The boys break out into an argument behind you, which quickly turns into a back and forth of anatomy based insults. Fanny. Face hole. Cloaca.

You follow your nose all the way to the kitchen, where you find a woman transferring freshly baked croissants from a cooling rack to a plate.

“Just in time,” she says, eyeing your outfit like it’s the most offensive pair of pyjamas she’s ever seen.

You think about telling her they’re not your clothes, but why bother? Does it matter what these people think of you? After this, you’ll never see them again.

“Help yourself,” the woman says, gesturing to a stool at the kitchen island, where an array of breakfast foods is laid out.

Then she goes back to the sink, humming the tune of Magnum PI, which is playing on a screen at the end of the kitchen counter.

You’re halfway through a delicious croissant when Violet and the herd of noisy boys arrive. They barely notice you as they jostle each other, making a grab for this or that. They leave with almost all the food.

“You’ve got to be fast around here,” says Violet, taking the seat next to yours. “I usually get up long before they do.” She yawns into her fist. “I guess I must’ve been too excited to sleep.”

You don’t ask.

“This is Glenda,” Violet says. “She makes the best cakes.”

“Thanks, pet,” Glenda says, turning to glare at the giant man who just ducked through the door, letting the cold air in. “Put wood in hole.”

The man rolls his eyes and closes the door, then flashes the woman a dazzling smile before grabbing a croissant that hasn’t even made it from the baking tray to the cooling rack yet.

“Put it on a plate, you sackless berk,” Glenda scolds. “How you became a professor with armpits for brains is anybody’s guess.”

The man doesn’t seem to mind the insult, grabbing the plate Glenda holds out to him, then sneaking another croissant onto it when Glenda turns back to the TV. He winks at Violet as he leaves the kitchen.

Violet leans closer to me. “That’s Magnus.”

“Is he your dad?” you ask.

“No, but… it’s complicated.”

“So, what’s on the agenda today?” you ask. You’re here for an adventure after all. “I’m supposed to find a blue bun.”

“I know just the place,” she says, slathering her croissant with cherry jam. “Eat up!”

Ten minutes later, you’re standing on a gravel drive, and your outfit still hasn’t got the memo. So much for Kane’s spell anticipating your clothing requirements.

“Cute outfit,” says the runway guy who looks barely out of his teens. “Why are you blushing? You do look cute in it.”

There are three men, three teenage boys, two women and a goat on the drive. A goat who isn’t you.

Glenda flaps at Lucy the goat with a tea towel, until she runs back into the garden.

Magnus jogs after the goat. “I’ll put her back in the barn.”

“Good luck keeping her in there,” the woman who isn’t Glenda says, before sliding into the driver’s seat of an ugly green people carrier.

Everyone else is arguing about who’s sitting where, and Violet asks, “Are you going to change?”

“I think there’s a spell on my clothes,” you admit. “Hopefully, they’ll change soon.”

Violet drags you to the slimy green car because the sleek black one is already full.

“It smells of Wotsits in here,” says one of the twins you encountered earlier, who’s pegging his nose with his fingers.

“It’ll stop smelling of Wotsits in here when you learn to take your rubbish into the house, Ben,” says the woman in the driver’s seat, who you assume is his mother. “It’s not me munching crisps in here.”

“That’s Eden,” Violet whispers to you.

“Where are we off to?” you ask. “You never said.”

“We’re going to the bun throw,” Glenda says from the passenger seat.

Oh.

The roads are busy—everyone must be going to the bun throw—but the countryside flies by. A scent reminiscent of coconut drifts in through the open window, and you think it might be coming from the vibrant yellow shrubs lining the roadside. It certainly smells better than stale cheesy snacks. You pass wildflower meadows, patches of ancient woodland, and small clusters of houses just sitting in the middle of nowhere by themselves.

“Listen, whatever you do, don’t try to use your phone… for anything,” Violet warns. “Don’t want to mess up the timeline.”

You frown. “Well… when are we?”

She shakes her head. “That’s not the point. Just… don’t do it.”

Eden drives slowly into a quaint village that looks like it’s trapped in a time warp. It puts you on alert, because if this was Star Trek, you’d be a redshirt. This is definitely the sort of place where Miss Marple would show up to flex.

“Finally!” Violet says, nodding pointedly at your clothes.

You glance down to find you’re now wearing a beige jumpsuit speckled with paint. You groan because this is… well, it’s not even the worst thing you’ve worn since you left Kane’s shop. But you’d still rather be wearing Simeon’s washday boxers and Fraggle Rock t-shirt than this.

“It would’ve been quicker to walk,” Glenda says when Eden finally finds a parking space.

Five minutes later, you’re in a busy square, the crowd pressing in on you from every direction. Who knew bun throwing was so popular?

Violet pulls you forward. “We need to get closer, come on.”

You reluctantly follow her to the foot of a tower as the crowd grows louder, chanting and cheering now as…

“Ow!”

Something hits you on the head.

“You’re supposed to catch it,” Violet says.

You instinctively raise your arms over your head to protect it from the onslaught of buns being flung from the tower’s roof. You’re certain that any minute now, the pigeons will descend, and everyone will run shrieking from the square. But they don't. They just cheer louder as hundreds of buns are thrown from the roof of the tower into the crowd.

“Ow! What the hell?” you complain a few minutes later, when another bun hits you right on the wrist bone. “Why are these buns made of clay?”

“Are you usually prone to exaggeration?” Violet asks.

“No,” you grumble, hiding beneath your arms again.

“You can look up now.”

You reluctantly lower your arms, only now realising how ridiculous you must have looked in front of all these fearless bun-facing people. Thankfully, nobody seems to have noticed. They’re all cheering and whistling as the final few buns hurtle through the air. You scan the ground around you, catching flashes of cobblestones between hundreds of pairs of feet. Eventually, you spot the flash of blue you’re looking for, but someone kicks the bun, and it spins away.

“I need the blue bun,” you remind Violet, and she follows you into the fray.

As the crowd thins out, you figure the blue bun should be easier to spot, but it’s not. You can’t see it anywhere.

Rain spits from the sky, and Violet pulls you under a shop awning. “Rain is the nemesis of my hair.”

“It’s pretty,” you tell her.

She pats her curls, which bounce. “Thanks. I’m sorry you got bombarded. I should have prepared you better.”

You shrug. “I should’ve predicted it myself. Bun throwing is pretty self-explanatory.” Suddenly, you find the whole thing very funny. “Bun throwing, though? Really? What even is that?”

“English village living,” Violet says, two dimples popping in her left cheek. “Do you like it?”

“Sure. I can hardly wait for tomorrow’s goat riding competition.”

Violet laughs. It’s loud and somewhat manic. “Actually, it’s cheese-rolling tomorrow.”

Your face does something complicated with twitchy eyes and rogue eyebrows.

She laughs again. “I’m just messing with you. It’s welly-throwing tomorrow.” She lifts her leg to show you her floral wellies.

“Nice,” you say. “Listen, I’m going to have another look around for this blue bun.”

“Alright. I’ll nip in here and get us a hot chocolate, yeah?”

After five more fruitless minutes of searching, and watching countless buns turn to mush in the rain, you join Violet under the awning.

She holds out a cup of steaming foamy chocolate. “There’s a guy over there watching you. Don’t… look.”

You’re already looking. The man is huge, his shoulders and head deep in the shadows of a shop doorway. You can only see the rest of him because of the tiny rings of lights illuminating the bottom of the shop windows on either side of his knees.

“How can you tell he’s looking?” you ask. “I can’t even see his face from here, let alone his eyes.”

“I have very good eyesight,” says Violet. “I’m sorry you didn’t find your bun.”

You shrug. “Maybe I’m not cut out for adventure.”

“Everyone is cut out for adventure,” she tells you. “But not all adventures are meant for you. You’ll find the one that is.”

You smile. “Thanks.”

“Don’t look now, but he’s coming over,” she says.

It takes all your willpower not to turn around, but you feel the man’s presence as he approaches, not least because he appears to be blocking what little sunlight the clouds are allowing through.

“Looking for this?” a deep and newly familiar voice says.

A blue bun sits in the man’s large hand, and you look up, recognition firing relief into your veins. “Pride. You found it.”

“You know him?” Violet asks, eyeing Pride suspiciously.

“Yes,” you say. “Sort of.”

Pride hugs you to his side, grinning excitedly. “We’re adventure buddies.”

“Ohhh… kay,” says Violet. “I guess you’re fine from here, then. Just as well, since my best friend is visiting and we’ll need your room.”

“It’s not much of an adventure so far,” you tell Pride, noticing he’s still wearing the huge belt buckle—which is tarnished, possibly Celtic, and doesn’t go with his outfit at all.

“I’m easing you in,” he says.

Violet smirks. “Maybe I’ll see you some other time.” She walks off in the direction of the car park, her hood pulled tightly over her curls, but she doesn’t get far before she jogs back. She holds out a white feather. “Something to remember me by.”

You take it with a smile. “Thanks.” Then you stuff it in your invisible bum-bag as Violet walks away.

“Hey, don’t crush my gadgets,” Pride complains, trying to poke at a bum-bag he can’t see.

You jump back. “No poking.” You pull out an old-school whistle on a chain. “What’s this for?”

“Demons,” he says, just as you’re about to bring it to your lips. “Don’t blow it!”

“What?” You pull the whistle slowly from your mouth, glancing around like you think monsters routinely show up at village bun-throws. “Demons?”

“Specifically those below water,” he says. “Drives them nuts.”

“Are there a lot of water-based demons?” you ask.

“More than land-based,” he says, “which makes sense when you think about it. Doesn’t work on well-demons since they share so much DNA with humans, and they’re not truly water-based, but it’ll send a kelpie whinnying off into the sunset with sore ears and a grudge.”

“Doesn’t sound wise,” you tell him, swapping the whistle for a small corked vial. “What about this?”

“Ah,” Pride says, going pink. “You don’t want to be messing with that unless you’ve got seduction on your mind.”

You grimace. “It’s a love potion?”

“No.” He snatches the vial from your hand. “Love potions aren’t… well, I can’t say they aren’t real, but they aren’t legal. This will just make you smell damn sexy.” He hands it back, so you can put it away. “Not that I need such things because I always smell damn sexy.”

“Obviously,” you say, returning the perfume in favour of a packet of chewing gum. “This?”

“Is chewing gum,” Pride says slowly, as if you should've guessed he'd have something so normal in his magic bag. “Ready to go on an actual adventure now, adventure buddy?”

“Only if you stop calling me that,” you reply. “Anyway, what’s the blue bun for?”

“It was just a focal lock, so I could find you in case…”

“In case what?”

“In case you got separated from my bag. Doesn’t matter.” Pride snaps the bun in half like it’s a fortune cookie, revealing a slip of paper inside. “Also, coordinates. This is where the adventure really begins.”

***

In From Tangled Roots Come Twisted Wings, Violet discovers that Magnus kept one of these buns, but why?

I took some liberties with the bun throw at Abingdon, which usually takes place in the early evening. You can see a video of the Queen's Platinum Jubilee Bun Throw, which includes drone footage, here.

If you want to be the first to get eyes on my new stories as I write them (to offer feedback), or before I publish them (to contribute a review), just fill in this Google form.

My current beta read is The Calling of the Well, and it will be available to read and offer feedback on until mid April.

Scooby Doo meets The Wizard of Oz but with polyamory.

Everyone’s running from something.

Jay’s running from the love he sacrificed in service to his family’s legacy—a legacy that keeps moving. Freya’s running from her demon mobster father, the head of the notorious DeMob, and an arranged marriage to a douchebag twice her age. Indy’s running because his bodyjacket fell off when his boss was killed, and his cover’s about to get blown sky high. Sunny’s running because he accidentally won $2.5 million of mob money and a pocketful of secrets. And Vlad’s running because the location of his lost soul currently resides in an envelope in Sunny’s pocket.

Boosting a campervan to escape Vegas, this crew of supernatural misfits soon realises there’s more to the van than meets the eye as they cross the country to hunt Jay’s legacy. But what sort of road trip would it be without a DeMob assassin on their tail?

Funny, spicy, and fraught with danger, this road trip turned quest is part one of a duology set in the Cascade Apocrypha storyworld, which gets immeasurably richer the more you read.

Urban fantasy road trip/quest, MM, MMF, mildly spicy times, Vegas demon mobsters, runaway supernaturals, sentient campervan.

When you emerge from the portal, you expect to find yourself soaked to the bone. Because that’s what it felt like when you were inside of it—water. But you’re not even damp.

“Where am I?” you mutter to yourself as you wrestle the frisbee portal into the bum-bag.

And why is there a Rube Goldberg machine on the stairs?

Nothing about the place is familiar, though the scent of freshly baked chocolate cake wafts up the stairs, mingling with furniture polish, which makes the house feel homely if nothing else. The golden carpet along the wide hallways is plush enough to sleep on. You can’t decide whether to take the hallway ahead or the one to your left. Going down the stairs behind you doesn’t seem wise, even if you do want to find out if that cake tastes as good as it smells.

You hear someone coming. Are you supposed to be here? Probably not. Your heart starts pounding against your ribcage like an angry fist. Because those are the heavy footsteps of a giant.

Before you can think better of it, you open the closest door and slip into the room, closing it quietly behind you. You press your forehead to the door, listening for those footsteps.

You jump when someone speaks behind you.

“Who the hell are you? And what are you doing in my room?”

You turn to find a girl sitting against the headboard of her bed, drinking milk and reading a book called Solid Air. Black curls frame a brown face and… purple eyes? You decide it must be a trick of the light.

“And what the hell are you wearing?” she goes on. “Did you mug the nineties?”

You look down at the bum-bag that she shouldn’t be able to see, slowly realising it’s not the worst thing you’re wearing. “These aren’t my clothes,” you protest.

The girl on the bed eyes you sceptically, one eyebrow arching high.

You’re wearing bottle green MC Hammer trousers, an oversized black shirt decorated with sunflowers, and… clown shoes. Bright red clown shoes with white stitching. At least they actually fit you. Where do you even buy clown shoes that fit? Were they made for child clowns? Are child clowns a thing?

Thatcher Kane’s last words come back to haunt you: You can’t wear that.

What a butthole!

“I think someone’s messing with me,” you say. “Sorry for barging into your room. A man with hell in his eyes brought me on an adventure, and I wasn’t sure which room to go to.”

“Oh, yeah, I know him,” she says, bouncing off the bed. “I’m Violet. Welcome to the priory.”

“You’ve got milk wings,” you tell her, then introduce yourself belatedly.

She wipes her mouth with her sleeve. “Are you hungry? I think Glenda made cake. And if you’re lucky, Archer’s cooking dinner tonight.”

You salivate as you stand there. This is the easiest decision you’ve ever made.

“This part of the house is a thousand years old,” Violet says as she leads you past the Rube Goldberg machine and down the stairs, turning left when you get to the bottom. “And this part is only a hundred years old.”

Vibrant, splashy artworks fill the plain walls, lending the room a modern air, but the furniture is dark and worn, like it's as old as the house itself.

And though the table is piled high with food, there’s no sign of a blue bun anywhere.

There are lots of tall, noisy boys standing around the table, elbowing each other for space as they pile food onto their plates.

“Not actually a zoo,” Violet reminds them, and the jostling miraculously stops. “We have a guest.” Violet hands you a tray. “Come on. We’ll eat in my room. This family… well, we're a lot.”

You're glad because they're all staring at you—a set of identical twins who look a lot like one of the older boys, the one who looks like he should be strutting on a runway, and the curly-haired boy with soft golden eyes—and you feel ridiculous in those clothes, certain you're blushing hard enough to power a lightbulb.

Back in Violet's room, you can't help wondering if the blue bun is here somewhere. The house is massive, the hallways almost as wide as the rooms in some parts. If the blue bun is here, how would you ever find it? And if it's the key to Pride finding you, do you even want to find it? It's not like you know the man, but he seemed kind of chaotic, and like a magnet for trouble. Still, he promised adventure, and isn't that what you wanted when you jumped into that frisbee portal? These thoughts occupy your mind throughout dinner and dessert.

Much later, after a tour during which you kept an eye out for the elusive blue bun, and met a brown goat called Lucy and her judgemental goat friends, all of whom had a nibble at your horrendous trousers, you watch the starlings swirling in the sky above the river. Violet points out squirrels and rabbits, and the super gnarly tree in the garden.

“It’s so pretty here,” you tell her as the sun makes its way to the horizon.

“It’s the best place on earth,” she says, and you don’t argue.

You like it here.

Still, you hesitate when Violet offers you a bed for the night.

So, what's the plan? Stay overnight at the priory and hope the blue bun presents itself? Or go home?