Suzy can’t believe her luck when a secret invitation magically appears – the Impossible Postal Express is ready to ride again!
But the celebrations don’t last long when Trollville is hit by a terrible tremor, putting everyone in danger. With the city in peril, a race against time begins from the magical Cloud Forge to the Uncanny Valley to catch the villain behind this dastardly plan. Will the Impossible Postal Express help Suzy get some answers?
“Rollicking entertainment.” The Sunday Times
“Rip-roaring inventive adventure.” The Independent
“A crazy, pacy charm.” The Guardian
To Théo, who loves stories.
I hope this one does the trick.
CONTENTS
ABOUT THIS BOOK
1 COUNTDOWN
2 GRINDING HALT
3 A ROYAL DISASTER
4 AFTERSHOCK
5 SPARE PARTS
6 BACK IN BUSINESS
7 PLAN B
8 THE NAVIGATION ROOM
9 CRASH LANDING
10 TROLL HUNT
11 STORM IN A TEACUP
12 ROCK BOTTOM
13 HOMEWARD BOUND
14 HEAD IN THE CLOUDS
15 SABOTAGE
16 MIND GAMES
17 CAPTIVE AUDIENCE
18 SIBLING RIVALRY
19 GETAWAY
20 RETURN TO TROLLVILLE
21 THE DRILL
22 THE ONLY WAY IS DOW N
23 A MIND IS A TERRIBLE THING TO WASTE
24 RISE OF THE TITAN
25 HOME TRUTHS
HOW WELL DO YOU KNOW YOUR SOCKS?
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
Suzy sat at the kitchen table, too nervous and excited to eat. Instead, she pushed her dinner around the plate with her fork and stole a glance at the clock for what felt like the hundredth time that evening. To her surprise, it was five to seven already. Only five minutes left.
“…which is why I’ve decided to send an email to the school,” said her mother, who was sitting beside her. She had a piece of broccoli on the end of her fork, and jabbed the air with it as she spoke. “I’ve never seen such behaviour. And from a teacher!”
“Hmmmph.” Suzy’s father nodded emphatically. He had a mouth full of chicken, and his plate was almost clean already.
“I mean, singling Suzy out like that,” her mother continued. “It’s no better than bullying. And I’m going to tell them so.”
“Mum, please,” groaned Suzy. “Just leave it.”
“No, I will not leave it, Suzy,” said her mother, turning the broccoli on her. “And neither should you. You have to stand up to people like that, or they’ll walk all over you.”
People like that in this case meant Mr Marchwood, the physics teacher at Suzy’s school.
Physics was Suzy’s passion, and she was never happier than when she was using it to unlock the possibilities of the world. But lately she had come to realize that the world was far stranger than she had ever dreamed of, and her schoolwork had taken a slightly more creative turn as a result. Mr Marchwood did not approve of this development and had called Suzy in for a “little chat”. He had also summoned Suzy’s mother, tired and impatient at the end of a long shift at the hospital. That was probably his first mistake, Suzy reflected.
“I don’t understand what’s happening to your work, Suzy,” Mr Marchwood had said, propping his elbows on his desk. His office, squeezed into the corner of one of the school’s laboratory storerooms, smelled of glue and formaldehyde, and Suzy did her best to breathe through her mouth. “It always used to be flawless, but this term it’s been going completely off the rails. I’m extremely disappointed in you.” He let these last words land heavily. Suzy gazed back at him, untroubled.
“But my calculations are all correct, sir,” she said. “I double-checked them.”
“It doesn’t matter if they’re correct or not,” Mr Marchwood said, “if the concepts you’re trying to calculate are all wrong. And by ‘wrong’, I mean ‘impossible’.”
Suzy’s mother had looked between them, clearly lost. “Excuse me, Mr Marchwood, but I’m not sure what you mean.”
“I mean you can’t reliably measure the velocity of a moving car if you decide to change the direction of gravity halfway through the exercise,” Mr Marchwood said. “Gravity doesn’t work like that.”
“But what if it did?” said Suzy.
“It doesn’t. It can’t.” Mr Marchwood was starting to look a little red in the face. “Just like you can’t cut the journey time to zero by freezing time itself. It’s preposterous.”
“But are my answers wrong?” Suzy asked, quite calmly.
Mr Marchwood was clearly about to dismiss the question, when Suzy’s mother spoke up. “Well, Mr Marchwood? It’s a fair question. Are they wrong or not?”
His face reddened a little more. “Maybe not,” he said. Then, almost spitting the words, “As a matter of fact, no, the calculations themselves appear to be perfectly sound, but—”
“Then what’s the problem?” said Suzy’s mother. “If the answers aren’t wrong, why are we here?”
“Because…because…” Mr Marchwood’s face was darkening from red to purple, and fat beads of sweat had sprung up on his forehead. “Because she isn’t solving the problems properly.”
“I am, sir,” said Suzy. “I’m just trying to find a better way to do it. Wouldn’t it be easier not to have gravity slowing your car down? Or to get where you’re going at the same time as you left?”
“No!” he spat. “I mean, yes, of course. But physics has laws! You can’t just go around breaking them!”
“I’m not really breaking them, sir,” said Suzy. “I’m just rearranging them a bit. It’s more fun.”
At that point, Mr Marchwood’s right eye had started twitching, and she and her mother had finally left, with the understanding that Suzy would keep the fun out of physics in future.
Suzy looked at the clock again. Three minutes to go.
She couldn’t really blame Mr Marchwood for getting angry – she knew it wasn’t very nice having one’s perfectly sensible view of the world overturned. After all, that was exactly what had happened to her two months ago, when she had woken in the night to find a troll building a railway through her house. The railway was a shortcut for the Impossible Postal Express – a high-speed mail train delivering packages throughout the Union of Impossible Places, a collection of fantastical realms that enjoyed only the most fleeting acquaintance with the laws of normality, as Suzy came to learn. She had been positively offended by the train’s existence at first, but as she rode it from the frozen desert of the Crepusculan Wastes to the haunted depths of the Topaz Narrows and onward to the very heart of the moon, she had learned to adjust her expectations. The laws of physics weren’t wrong – far from it, they had helped her and the train’s crew escape disaster (not to mention an army of living statues) – but they weren’t the neat little answer to all life’s questions that she had once thought they were.
Which was why she couldn’t help wishing that Mr Marchwood would show just a little bit of imagination; she was sure they would both be a lot happier for it.
“I’ll send the headmistress an email as soon as we’ve finished dinner,” Suzy’s mother said, finally taking a bite of the broccoli. “Her teachers are out of control. She needs to enforce some order.”
“Please, Mum,” said Suzy. “You’ll just annoy her.”
Suzy’s father swallowed his last mouthful, pushed his plate aside, and started drumming his fingertips together. Suzy recognized the gesture – it meant he was going to try and calm Mum down. On a good day, he could do it without her even realizing it had happened. On a bad day, however, he only made things worse. Suzy braced herself.
“I think the most important thing to remember,” said her father, “is how Suzy feels about all this.” He turned his long, pale face towards her. “Suzy? How do you feel about all this?”
“I’m fine, Dad. Really.”
Two minutes left!
He nodded, wanting to show that he was listening and understood. “And you’d tell us if anything at school was weighing on your mind?”
“You know I would,” she said, happy that she hadn’t had to lie. The thing that was weighing on her mind had nothing to do with school.
“Of course it’s on her mind,” said her mother. “Can’t you see how distracted she’s been lately? Look, she’s hardly eaten a thing.” She glared accusingly at Suzy’s plate, as if the food was somehow complicit in the situation. Suzy speared a bit of chicken with her fork and set about eating it, but her mind was on the time, and she hardly tasted anything.
Because today, after two months of waiting and hoping, she was going back to the Union of Impossible Places. And according to the gold-edged invitation she had hidden away in her bedroom, she was to be “ready for collection” at seven o’clock sharp. She had no idea who was going to collect her, or how they were going to do it, but she couldn’t wait to find out.
One minute!
She was so excited that her hands were shaking, and she set her fork down again. Luckily, her mother was too distracted to notice.
“Physics has always been Suzy’s best subject,” she went on. “So why have her grades been slipping these past couple of months? None of her other subjects are affected. I refuse to believe it’s a coincidence.”
Her father continued to drum his fingertips together. “Maybe she’s looking for a creative outlet.” He turned back to Suzy. “Is that it, darling? Do you feel restricted at school?”
“Hmmm?” said Suzy, not really listening. “Yeah, sure. Probably.”
Thirty seconds…
“There you are, you see?” said her father. “I told you we shouldn’t have let her give up the violin.”
“The neighbours moved to Gdansk to get away from that violin,” her mother snapped. “And anyway, that was when she was six. She’s eleven now.”
Ten, nine, eight…
Suzy’s mother skewered another piece of broccoli. “No, Calum,” she said. “I know it might sound crazy, but there’s something funny going on. I can feel it.”
Suzy’s father opened his mouth to reply, but all that came out was a tremendous yawn. Without another word, he slumped forward onto the table, fast asleep. Suzy and her mother both gasped in shock, but while Suzy jumped to her feet, her mother swayed in her chair. Her fork slipped from her hand, and Suzy just had time to pull her plate out of the way before she, too, toppled forward onto the table. Within seconds, both Suzy’s parents were snoring loudly.
“Wow,” said Suzy. “That was fast.”
“D’you like it?” came a gruff voice from behind her. “We upgraded the sleepin’ spells. Got a bit more kick to ’em now.”
Suzy turned as a small brown knobbly creature ambled into the kitchen from the hall. It had bat-like ears, an enormous nose, and was wearing grubby overalls. It stopped in front of Suzy and peered up at her. “Were you always this tall, or ’ave you grown?” it said.
Suzy burst into a huge grin and threw her arms around the creature. “Fletch!” she said, picking him up and squeezing him. “I missed you.”
“Gerroff,” he muttered, but made no move to dislodge her. She finally set him back on his feet. “Are all humans this touchy-feely?”
“Only when we’re very pleased to see someone,” she said.
“Bah!” Fletch exclaimed. “Makes me glad I’m a troll.” He sniffed. “You ready?”
“Almost,” she said. “I just need to get changed. I couldn’t do it while Mum and Dad were awake. They would have asked too many questions.”
“Hurry up then,” said Fletch. “We can’t afford to be late.”
She took a few steps to the door, but a twinge of guilt made her hesitate.
“What you doin’?” said Fletch as she hurried back to the table.
“Just saying goodbye,” said Suzy, bending to plant a quick kiss on first her mother’s and then her father’s forehead. “I know they’ll be fine, but it doesn’t really seem fair to leave them like this.”
“Well, I’m not taking ’em with us,” said Fletch, helping himself to a chicken drumstick from her mother’s plate. “I’ll wake ’em up as soon as we get back. Now get on with you. It’s not every day we get invited to a royal reception. We don’t want to keep His Majesty waitin’.”
That was enough to put the smile back on Suzy’s face, and she dashed out of the kitchen.
Her rucksack was packed and ready, and hidden under her bed. She pulled it out and hurriedly double-checked the contents. She had a water bottle, a notebook and pen, and a small first-aid kit. But, most importantly, she had a large book bound in dark-red leather.
Its cover was scarred and pitted, with several deep slashes running across it, but the title, embossed in gold, was still legible: The Knowledge: An Instructional Handbook for Impossible Postal Operatives. She pulled it out and flipped it open to the handwritten dedication on the title page:
Dear Suzy,
No one ever became a Postie without a copy of The Knowledge in hand, so I’ve sent you mine. Take its words to heart and they won’t let you down. It’s also thick enough to use as a shield against angry Thrippian bowmen (in case you were wondering about the state of the cover). See you soon!
Sincerely,
Wilmot
As always, Suzy smiled at the words. Like Fletch, Wilmot was a troll. He was also her boss – the Postmaster of the Impossible Postal Express – and her best friend, and she had missed him more than anyone else these past two months. The book, like all her correspondence with the Impossible Places, had magically appeared on the doorstep one morning, probably via a remote spell of some sort. She knew it couldn’t have been delivered by hand, as the Express was out of action. But all that was about to change…
She flipped through the book until she found her invitation, kept flat between the central pages. It was printed on thick, cream-coloured paper, and in elaborate, looping handwriting it read:
She replaced both the invitation and the book in her bag and hurried to her wardrobe, throwing the doors wide.
It was stuffed full of winter coats, old sweaters and shoes, but she reached through them, feeling for the secret hanger she had suspended from a nail right at the back. She found it, and pulled out a uniform of smart red felt and glimmering gold brocade. She paused to pick a bit of fluff off the sleeve of its long coat and run her thumb over the lettering of the badge pinned to its lapel:
She changed quickly and took a moment to soak up the feeling of finally being in her official postal uniform. It felt very good indeed – the uniform consisted of black trousers with gold piping down the seams, a white shirt with a red waistcoat, and a red greatcoat that fell to her knees. The coat had the same gold piping as the trousers, large circular gold buttons embossed with the Impossible Postal Service crest, and satisfyingly large pockets. There was also a red cap with a black peak and, last of all, black boots. After a moment’s thought, she left the boots in the wardrobe and instead pulled on her trainers, which were bright red, and so at least matched the jacket. They were more comfortable than the boots, and on her last visit to the Impossible Places she had done a lot of running, mostly for her life, so she thought they might be a good idea.
It certainly beats pyjamas and slippers, she thought, looking in the mirror.
Suzy had barely laced up her shoes when there was a knock on the door, and Fletch let himself in without waiting to be asked.
“Ready to go and be a postie?” he said.
Suzy shouldered her rucksack and gave him an enormous grin. “Absolutely,” she said.
Suzy could feel the excitement running through her as she followed Fletch downstairs and along the hall…to the cupboard under the stairs.
“Here we go,” he said.
“What, in there?” she asked, surprised. The cupboard was small and crammed full of cleaning equipment and spiders. At least, it had been – because when Fletch opened the door, she saw a dark and cavernous space, as big as her school assembly hall. It was lit by a lamp standing on an old-fashioned pump cart – a simple rectangular platform on wheels, powered by a large see-saw handle mounted in the middle – which in turn stood on a pair of tracks that ran to the dark opening of a tunnel mouth ahead of them.
“I made a few adjustments,” said Fletch, starting towards the pump cart. “You know how it is.”
As an interdimensional engineer for the troll railways, it was Fletch’s job to lay new tracks as they were needed. Sometimes that meant squeezing them, and the trains they carried, into spaces that were never designed to take them. In those cases, a little stretching of the local dimensions was called for.
This was all possible thanks to fuzzics, the strange collision of science and magic that lay at the heart of most troll technology.
“At least you didn’t take over the whole hallway this time,” she said, climbing up onto the pump cart with him.
“Yeah, well,” he said, “I’m being discreet.” He released the brake and the cart began rolling towards the tunnel mouth. “Next stop, Trollville,” he said, giving her a wink.
Suzy trembled with excitement from her cap to her trainers. After two months, she was finally heading back to the Union of Impossible Places. The Express, and her friends, were waiting.
Cold wind howled through the darkness of the tunnel, pulling at Suzy’s hair and coaxing tears from her eyes.
It was hard work powering the pump cart. Suzy and Fletch stood at opposite ends of the small rectangular vehicle, facing each other over the see-saw-like handle mounted in the middle. Suzy was riding backwards, but kept looking over her shoulder to see where they were going.
“C’mon,” Fletch called over the howl of the tunnel. “Put a bit of effort into it!”
“I am!” Suzy shouted back.
Whenever Fletch pulled down on his side of the pump, her side rose up, and she had to lift both feet off the floor and apply all her weight to force it back down again. It was tough going, but she had the sense that she and Fletch were slipping through reality at incalculable speeds, and she couldn’t help the joyous tingle that ran down her spine and made the hairs on her arms stand up.
The tunnel was a sort of wormhole, she knew – a shortcut through the fabric of reality, and part of a complex network connecting all corners of the Union of Impossible Places. There were thousands of scientists across the world who had spent years trying to figure out if such things were even possible, and here Suzy was with one in her understairs cupboard. The thought made her laugh out loud.
“Save your breath for pumping,” Fletch said, a lopsided smile hiding just under the surface of his habitual grimace. “We’re nearly there!”
They rocketed out of the tunnel and straight into the jumble of dirty yellow industrial buildings that comprised the upper layer of Trollville. The troll capital wasn’t just a city – it was an enormous bridge, spanning the fathomless depths of a rocky gorge. The upper surface of the bridge, known as the Overside, was home to all the civic and industrial quarters on which the trolls had made their reputation – chimneys smoked, cranes performed stately pirouettes, and dozens of trains shuttled back and forth along the expanse of tracks that ran like a steel river through the middle of town.
Suzy was overjoyed to see it again. She had only had a brief taste of the city’s lively, unpredictable atmosphere on her last visit, but she had missed it ever since. She wondered if she would have a chance to visit the Underside – the residential quarter where Wilmot lived, suspended beneath the bridge with nothing but the dizzying drop into the gorge below it.
Fletch shut his eyes and drew in a long draught of air through his prodigious nostrils. “Ah, sniff that!” he said, his nose hairs twitching. “No smell like it in the Union. One of these days I’ll bottle it, you see if I don’t.”
Suzy sniffed. The air of Trollville smelled like smoke and engine oil, with a faint aftertaste of bananas. It wasn’t unpleasant, but she couldn’t imagine anyone but the trolls wanting to smell it wherever they went. Then she wondered what her own world must smell like to Fletch – cooking oil, fresh laundry and her mum’s jasmine perfume, probably – and decided it probably wasn’t such a strange idea, after all. Home was always good to have around.
All thoughts of home soon fell away though, as the track the pump cart was following peeled away from the others and plunged deeper into the city, winding through the streets at ground level and forcing them to lower their speed. This was a part of Trollville that Suzy had never seen before; grand townhouses reared up on either side, their brickwork scrubbed and shining, and bunting hung between their balconies. The streets were busy with trolls all dressed in their finest clothes, but the crowds parted to let the pump cart roll through. Suzy saw parasols and ludicrously tall stovepipe hats, a few of which seemed to have been fashioned from actual stovepipes. Long tables had been set out on the cobbles and were being piled high with food. Buskers congregated on every street corner, armed with instruments that looked like reclaimed scrap, pouring out their music in a cheerful collision of toots, whistles and clanks. It looked like the biggest street party she had ever seen.
“Wow,” said Suzy. “I had no idea the celebrations were going to be this big.”
“Didn’t you?” Fletch looked surprised. “The Express is the most famous train in Troll Territory, my girl, and it’s not every day it gets a new lease of life. The king’s declared a city-wide holiday. Everyone’s goin’ all out.”
Perhaps that explained why so many heads were turning to follow her in her postal uniform, Suzy thought. It felt a little odd to be the centre of so much attention, but at least everyone looked pleased to see them. She raised one hand from the pump and waved at the crowd. Many of them waved back enthusiastically.
“Less wavin’, more pumpin’,” Fletch grumbled.
Suzy returned both hands to the pump. “How far is it to the reception?” she asked. “My arms are getting tired.”
“See for yerself,” said Fletch, and pointed past her.
Suzy turned to look in the direction they were heading. Their track, along with a host of others emerging from nearby streets and cuttings, was veering towards an enormous spherical building of greenish glass and wrought iron. It was easily two hundred metres tall, and had several broad openings up and down its sides from which tracks issued, snaking away across the city on tall viaducts.
“It’s incredible!” she said.
“It’s Grindin’ Halt,” Fletch replied. “The biggest station in Trollville.”
Suzy marvelled at it as they left the townhouses behind them and approached the sphere. Now that they were closer, she could see the station’s different levels through the glass, stacked one on top of the other, like the layers of a gigantic wedding cake.
And they were moving.
Suzy forgot all about pumping and simply stared in astonishment as one of the levels halfway up the sphere began revolving like an enormous turntable. It was loaded with trains, all facing out towards the glass, and when the right one was lined up with the nearest opening, the rotation stopped. A moment later, the train was fired out of the station like a bullet from a gun, and went screaming away along one of the viaducts. In just a few seconds, it had vanished into the distance.
“Wow!” said Suzy, laughing.
“Keep your eyes in your head and your hands on the pump,” said Fletch. “I’m not doin’ this all by myself.”
There was a moment of darkness as the cart entered the sphere through an opening at its base.
It was like gliding into a massive machine, and Suzy almost let go of the pump again to cover her ears. The air was hot, and filled with a chorus of hisses and whistles from the trains that stood panting at platforms all around them. The platforms and tracks all radiated outward from the centre of the sphere, where a huge iron column, twice the width of Suzy’s house, held up the levels above. The cart coasted towards it, through an opening in its base and into a wide circular chamber, where Fletch applied the brake so suddenly that, had she not been holding the pump handle, Suzy would probably have been thrown off. She fished a strand of hair out of her face and glared at him.
“Royal reception, is it?” a voice called.
Suzy looked around. A young female troll in a green-and-white station uniform stood against the chamber wall, a small megaphone to her lips. A large control panel covered with flashing buttons was fixed to the wall beside her.
“How did you guess?” said Fletch.
“The postal uniform’s a dead giveaway,” said the troll. She mounted a small stepladder that stood in front of the panel, until she could reach the uppermost button. The chamber door slid shut and, with a juddering and grinding of gears, the three of them began to rise.
The troll hurried back down the ladder and folded it away. “Yeah, I’ve been ferrying people up there all afternoon,” she said. “Looks dead fancy.”
The elevator finally jolted to a stop. “Top floor,” the troll announced. “Platform ninety-two. Short-stay parking. Enjoy the bash.” She tipped her hat as they pumped the cart out through the doors.
“Cor,” said Fletch, looking around in admiration. “There’s some pretty flash wheels up ’ere. Look!” The platforms were shorter here at the top of the sphere, which meant there was little room for the lengthy passenger trains that had crowded the lower level. Instead, a collection of small locomotives stood buffer to buffer at the platforms. Most of them didn’t even have carriages behind them, and Suzy guessed they were the rail-faring equivalent of luxury sports cars. They were painted in rich reds and golds, and sprouted all manner of elaborate exhaust pipes, flywheels and, in one puzzling case, wings.
“A Mark Three Puffing Devil!” said Fletch, who didn’t seem to know where to look first. “And a Telford Dragster Classic! Blimey.”
The pump cart came to a final stop, nuzzling the buffers of a tiny open-topped locomotive that looked like a steam-powered chariot.
Before either of them could step down onto the platform, a middle-aged troll in a gold frock coat and white powdered wig appeared, and greeted them with a curt nod. A royal courtier, Suzy guessed. For some reason, the tip of his nose was flat and shiny, like worn stone.
“Are you Deputy Postal Operative Suzy Smith?” he said.
“I am,” said Suzy with a flush of pride.
“And are you Interdimensional Engineer Fletch?”
“Yup,” said Fletch.
The courtier looked between them both. “If I may see your invitations, please?”
Suzy shrugged her rucksack off and retrieved her invitation from inside it. Fletch, meanwhile, dipped into one of the pockets of his overalls and produced a badly crumpled and slightly oil-stained scrap of card that was just about recognizable. “It’s well-travelled,” Fletch said. “Same as me.”
The courtier took both invitations, although he held Fletch’s between finger and thumb and at arm’s length. After a moment’s consideration, he said, “The invitation specifies formal dress, sir. And I’m afraid your current attire is a little…” He pursed his lips. “Basic.”
Suzy could hardly believe what she had heard, and flushed with angry embarrassment on Fletch’s behalf. To her surprise though, he just laughed.
“I’d like to see you knock ’oles through reality in those glad rags,” he said. “But as it ’appens, I’ve brought me suit.”
He unzipped his overalls and stepped out of them. Suzy stared. He was wearing a pin-striped suit, once black, but now soft grey and shiny with age. The elbows had been patched and one of the shoulders had been repaired with blue thread. Nevertheless, he looked smarter than she had ever seen him before.
“Will this do?” he asked, giving a little twirl. “I wear it to everything. Weddings, funerals. Court hearings.”
The courtier looked him up and down and huffed. “That will be adequate. Now, if you would both care to follow me, His Majesty and his esteemed guests await the pleasure of your company at the reception on platform one hundred.” Without waiting for an answer, he turned on his heels and strode away, his flattened nose in the air.
“I can’t believe how rude he was to you!” Suzy hissed as she and Fletch fell into step behind him.
“Not worth makin’ a fuss over,” Fletch whispered back. “The thing to remember about snobs is they’re always terrified you’re better than them in some way. And most of the time they’re right.”
Suzy felt her anger cool a little as she pondered this, though she sincerely hoped the king would be nicer than his courtiers.
They followed the courtier along the platform and up a flight of steps onto a footbridge that ran in a ring around the entire level. The bridge was busy with other guests, all finely dressed and heading in the same direction.
“Make way!” the courtier cried. “Make way for His Majesty’s personal guests!”
Suzy smiled apologetically at the people who whispered and stared as she passed. Most of them were trolls, although there were other species present as well. Suzy saw a trio of people who looked like cats, complete with whiskers and tails; a tall blue flamingo-like creature in a fabulously elaborate hat; and a flock of fairies with jet-black wings, hovering in place like hummingbirds. People must have come from all five corners of reality to be here, she pondered. It added a tinge of nerves to her excitement.
The crowd thickened as they went, finally gathering into an untidy knot at the top of the stairs leading to platform one hundred.
“What is the meaning of this?” said the courtier, fighting his way through. Suzy tucked her elbows in and followed close on his heels, with Fletch behind her. “You’re blocking the thoroughfare!” the courtier continued. “Guards? Why are all these people waiting?”
They emerged from the throng to find two troll guards in polished armour and gold wellington boots blocking access to the stairs. They were armed with long tubes of dented brass, flared at one end, which looked alarmingly like rocket launchers. She hoped they were simply ceremonial.
They certainly didn’t seem to be intimidating the small human figure in the pearlescent white suit who stood facing the guards. Suzy couldn’t see his face, but his folded arms and stiff back suggested he was angry.
“Sorry, sir,” said one of them. “We’ll be able to let people through once we’ve persuaded this young gentleman to be on his way.” He nodded with weary patience to the figure, who huffed in frustration.
“I’m not going anywhere until you double-check the guest list!” he said. “Don’t you know who I am?”
Suzy blinked in surprise. She certainly knew who he was – she recognized the slightly nasal whine of his voice from her last visit to the Union, when it had been speaking to her from the confines of a snow globe. This was only the second time she had seen him in his true human form. “Frederick?” she said. He whirled round to face her. It was Frederick alright – he was pale, with a pinched face and a mop of dirty blond hair.
“Suzy!” he said. “You’re here! You can tell them.”
“Tell them what?” she said.
“To let me in, of course,” he said. “There seems to have been some mix-up with my invitation.”
“Is this true?” the courtier asked the guard who had spoken.
“The young gentleman doesn’t have an invitation, sir,” said the guard.
“And that’s the mix-up,” said Frederick. “Clearly it must have been lost in the post or something.”
“They were sent directly via remote spell,” said the courtier. “I saw to the deliveries myself.”
Frederick flushed, though whether through anger or embarrassment, Suzy couldn’t tell. “But I must have been invited. I’m the Chief Librarian of the Ivory Tower!”
Many of the people around them gave a low hiss of displeasure at these words. Frederick’s face fell, and Suzy caught a flicker of disquiet in his eyes. She felt similarly nervous – what was happening here? She knew Frederick could be annoying, but he was a good person at heart. He had helped her save the Union.
“Then I don’t know why you expected an invitation at all,” said the courtier. “Now stop blocking the way, or I’ll have the guards escort you out.” The guards took half a step forward, ready to act, and that’s when Suzy made a decision.
“Let him through,” she said.
Frederick looked shocked, although not as shocked as the courtier.
“That is absolutely out of the question!”
“Why?” she said. “I’m sure the king won’t mind if I bring a guest with me.”
A look of barely restrained horror crossed the courtier’s face. “You can’t do that! It’s against protocol!” He seized her arm and tried to pull her towards the stairs. “Now come along!”
“No.” Suzy wrenched her arm free. “I’m not going anywhere without Frederick.”
A scandalized whisper rippled through the onlookers.
“With the greatest possible respect, miss,” said the courtier, fighting to keep his voice under control, “I must insist that you leave this boy behind and follow me.”
“What happens if I don’t?” Suzy folded her arms and hoped that her nervousness didn’t show. Would she get in trouble with the king? All she knew was that Frederick needed her help, and that was enough to make her stand her ground.
“If you don’t…? But you must!” The courtier flapped his hands in mounting distress. “His Majesty can’t inaugurate the new Express without every member of the crew present!”
Suzy felt a touch of confidence return. “Then it looks like a lot of people are going to be very disappointed,” she said. And just to reassure herself, she took Frederick’s arm and linked it through hers. There, she thought. Now we’re inseparable.
Frederick gawked at her with a mixture of shock and admiration. The courtier, meanwhile, ground his teeth.
“Perhaps…” he began.
“Yes?” said Suzy. “Perhaps what?”
“Perhaps on this occasion,” he said, “it might just be possible to arrange access for the young man. As your plus-one.”
Suzy felt Frederick stand a little straighter, and she gave the courtier her warmest smile. “Thank you,” she said. “That would be fantastic.” She ignored the mutters of disapproval from the crowd.
“About blinkin’ time,” said Fletch. “Can we get a move on?”
“Very well,” said the courtier, through clenched teeth. He nodded to the guards, who snapped to attention and stood aside. Then he moved to the top of the stairs and cleared his throat. “My lords, ladies and gentlemen,” he announced. “Pray welcome our honoured guests, Senior Interdimensional Engineer Fletch, and Deputy Postal Operative Suzy Smith.” And then, under his breath, “Plus guest.” He bowed so low that his nose scraped the ground.
So that’s why it’s flat, Suzy thought. Then, together with Fletch and Frederick, and with a renewed feeling of excitement that made the hairs on the back of her neck prickle, she stepped past the courtier to get her first look at the royal reception.