(Behind her, the door opened.)

‘Never mind all that now,’ said Grimm #2, holding up a hand in mild reproof. ‘You’ve just given me an idea. How’d you like to work for the government?’

The werewolf glowered at him. ‘Wash your mouth out with soap,’ she replied sternly. ‘I may be an evil old lycanthropic witch, but I’m not that far gone. Now hold still while I—’

She got no further than that, mostly on account of Grimm #1 creeping through the open door, sneaking up behind her and nutting her with a three-legged stool.

‘Thanks,’ his brother muttered. ‘I just hope to God you haven’t killed her, is all.’

Grimm #1 scowled at him, as if he’d just advised a high-class gift horse to brush and floss thoroughly after every meal. ‘Oh, I’m terribly sorry,’ he said. ‘I’d somehow got it into my muddled old brain that you might actually like to be rescued.’

As she lay on the floor, looking for all the world as if someone ought to come and paint a thick white line all round her, the werewolf was changing back into human form. On balance, Grimm #2 muttered to himself, I preferred the wolf version.

‘Or given her amnesia,’ he went on, ‘which’d be almost as bad. Oh well, only one way to find out. While I’m tying her up, nip downstairs and get a bucket of cold water.’

‘All right,’ said Grimm #1. ‘Just as soon as you explain to me why, after I’ve been to all the trouble of knocking the old bat out, you immediately want to bring her round again. What is it? Compunction? Remorse? Missed it the first time and want a replay?’

Grimm #2, who had been checking the old biddy’s pulse, looked up and grinned. ‘Because she might just be the answer to all our prayers, that’s why,’ he replied.

Grimm #1 leaned over and took a good look. ‘What on earth for?’ he said. ‘I can just about imagine a keen gardener having a use for her if he was having trouble with crows on his seed beds, but we both hate gardening. Or were you planning to set up a bespoke nightmare service for people who’re allergic to cheese?’

Grimm #2 stroked his chin. ‘Actually,’ he said, ‘that’s not a bad idea. Remind me of that when this is all over. Meanwhile, though, think about werewolves.’

‘Werewolves?’

‘And witches and the undead generally, but werewolves in particular. See what I’m driving at yet?’

‘Can’t say I — oh wow!’ Grimm #1’s face lit up like a fire in a match factory. ‘As in not making a reflection in mirrors?’

Grimm #2 grinned like a dog. ‘Got there at last,’ he said. ‘Well, don’t just stand there, go fetch the water.’

Grimm #1 hurried off down the stairs, while Grimm #2 played DIY Egyptian Mummies with a dressing-gown cord and three balls of wool he found in the old biddy’s knitting basket. By the time his brother returned with the water, she looked like a ball of string with a head sticking out of one end.

‘Hold it,’ Grimm #2 said, as his brother lifted the bucket over her head. ‘Not so fast. Put that bucket down carefully and let me try something.’

Once the ripples on the surface of the bucket had died away, Grimm #2 bent over it and muttered a string of what sounded suspiciously like gibberish. It seemed to have the desired effect, however, for not long afterwards several lines of glowing green text materialised just under the surface.

‘Well?’ asked Grimm #1.

‘Message from HQ,’ Grimm #2 replied. ‘Asking us why a routine patrol exercise is taking such a long time, and why we haven’t acknowledged receipt of the latest written orders.’

‘Fair question,’ Grimm #1 conceded.

Grimm #2 shrugged his shoulders. ‘You would say that. We’d better get a move on, before they get really difficult.’

Grimm #1 nodded, and let fly with the water. There was a splash, a loud curse and a spluttering noise; then—

‘Oh balls,’ Grimm #2 muttered. ‘That’s awkward.’

‘Not nearly as awkward as it’d be if she wasn’t tied up,’

Grimm #1 replied, taking several steps backwards. ‘You sure those knots’ll hold?’

‘Here’s hoping. Any idea how we turn her back?’

On the floor before them lay a huge grey she-wolf.

Chapter 8

‘I don’t care about the marketing possibilities,’ snapped the Baron irritably. ‘I think it looks ridiculous, and I want it out of here now.’

Igor sighed. Ever since it had made its unscheduled and unexpected appearance, he’d become curiously fond of the little wooden puppet, with its perky smile and quaint features; in addition to which, there was no question but that in some highly unorthodox but nevertheless effective way, the thing was alive. Far too alive to be lightly thrown on the fire or buried in the compost heap. ‘Can I have it, then?’ he asked. ‘It’s not for me, you understand, it’s for my sister’s kid. She’d love to have something that actually came from the castle.’

‘So long as you get the stupid thing out of my sight and keep it there,’ the Baron replied. ‘I’m sick to the teeth of its horrible simpering expression. Its eyes seem to follow me all round the room.’

Igor knew how the Baron felt; there was something strange about the thing, sure enough. Not creepy; it was too nauseatingly cute for that. The worst it could do would be to adore you to death. Nevertheless, there was clearly more to it than met the eye. The fact that it was apparently alive, for a start.

‘Thanks,’ Igor said, scooping it up and stuffing it inside his jacket before the Baron changed his mind. ‘My nephew’ll be ever so pleased.’

‘Pleasure. I’ll stop it out of your wages.’

What with tidying up the mess left behind by the experiment and keeping well out of the Baron’s way, it was late evening by the time Igor returned to his cramped, musty little cottage next door to the formaldehyde store, and he wasn’t in the mood to examine his new acquisition closely. Accordingly he dumped it on the table, crammed a handful of stale cheese rind into his mouth and fell into bed. Not long afterwards, a snore you could have cracked rocks with shook the rafters, and the puppet decided it was safe to take a look round.

If the first day was anything to go by, he decided, Life was a bit like a frog sandwich; some parts of it were better than others. The not being an inanimate section of log, for example, was quite invigorating; likewise the bewildering flood of sensory information and the countless new experiences. The sense of being absolutely surplus to requirements wasn’t so good, and the puppet wondered if there was anything it could do about that. It had an idea that being loved might help, though where the idea came from…

Help! Help! Let me out!

…It wasn’t sure. Either it was an exceptionally quick learner, or else it’d known a lot of useful stuff before it came to life. Which was impossible, surely.

‘Hello, world,’ it said, noticing as it did so that its voice was high and squeaky, not at all as it had imagined it would be.

Please, PLEASE listen to me. I’m a human being, and I’m stuck in this horrid wooden Disney thing. Can anybody hear me?

The puppet stood very still. ‘Hello?’ it said.

Hello?

‘Hello.’

Oh, will you please stop repeating every word I say? Listen, you’ve got to help me. I can’t stay here, my mum’ll be worried sick. I’ve got homework to do, and there’s a maths test on Friday. Please?

‘Hello?’

Oh no, don’t do this to me. Look, if you help me I promise I’ll be your friend.

‘He— you will?’

Yes. Promise. Cross my heart.

‘Gosh. That sounds nice. What’s a friend?’

I really don’t have time for— no, wait, don’t go all droopy on me. A friend is someone who loves you. Very much.

‘Ah,’ said the puppet. ‘I think I’d like one of those.’

I know you would. Now then, this is what I want you to do. Over there by the window there’s a—