Free Charlie Bone and the Wilderness Wolf (Children of the Red King, Book 6) by Jenny Nimmo

gradually came into focus. Now he could see other figures: There was a group of life-size statues of Roman soldiers; beside them stood three fierce-looking women carrying clubs and axes and, farther back, a man that looked more ogre than human. At the far end, beneath a skylight, there was a mounted knight, wielding a lance. The knight's horse wore a feathered headdress, and beneath the saddle its body was covered in a kind of blanket patterned with leaves.
    "He's jousting," said Benjamin knowledgeably.
    "Imagine if they were alive," Billy said, almost in a whisper.
    Charlie took a step back from the window. It was quite possible that there were people in the city who could bring statues to life.
    "I smell fish," said Benjamin. "So does Runner."
    Runner Bean had reached a shop farther down the road. He was standing in the middle of the sidewalk, barking furiously.
    "Is he doing that because he likes fish?" asked Charlie, as they ran toward the yellow dog.
    "Hates it," panted Benjamin, grabbing Runner Bean's collar.
    But the window his dog was barking at was completely empty. A sign above the window said, "FISH." It had been printed on a white background in untidy blue letters and looked as if it had been hurriedly painted over something else. In fact, if you looked closer, you could just make out the word "BUTCHER" beneath the white paint.
    "Do you know what it smells like to me?" said Billy.
    "Dagbert," said Charlie.
    They stared at the empty shop and then at the window above it, wondering if it could be the very place where Dagbert was staying. And if it was, what sort of people owned a shop that was empty and hurriedly painted?
    "Very odd people, indeed," said someone who seemed to have read their minds.
    They turned to see a woman standing outside a house three doors away. Her copper-colored hair was so smooth it looked like a helmet, and her padded black coat so shiny it could have been made of steel. She was very wide and her broad shoulders gave the impression of immense strength.
    "I've been waiting for you, my dears," said the woman. "I'm Mrs. Kettle, Cook's friend. Got a little animal just dying to see you."
    "Rembrandt!" cried Billy, rushing up to her.
    "You're Billy, aren't you?" said Mrs. Kettle. "And you must be Benjamin, because of the dog, and you're Charlie. Come in my dears, it's perishing cold out here." Mrs. Kettle went into her shop, which couldn't have been more different from the deserted fish shop down the road.
    Everything in Mrs. Kettle's shop appeared to shine. It was only when Charlie's eyes had become accustomed to the bright twinkling all about him that he realized every item was a kettle. They came in all shapes and sizes and every color. They jostled together on shelves, displayed themselves on tables, or sat singly and proudly on pedestals. The pride of the place was the biggest copper kettle Charlie had ever seen. It stood in the center of the window, surrounded by other, lesser kettles, and you could see a strange, slanting copper-tinted version of the whole shop reflected in its bright, shiny side.
    "That's just for show, my dear," said Mrs. Kettle, following Charlie's gaze. "My best kettle is behind the scenes. Come with me." She went through an archway at the back of the shop and beckoned them into yet another kettle-filled room, only this one had a few more spaces in it. Four chairs with cushions, not kettles, on their seats, clustered around a small table.
    Billy wasn't interested in any of it. Unable to contain his impatience, he burst out, "Where is he? Where's my rat?"
    "Well, now, I wonder," teased Mrs. Kettle. "Did you think I'd forgotten, my dear?"
    "No. Yes," Billy blurted. "No. Please, is he here?"
    "Of course he is!" Mrs. Kettle plunged her hand into one of her kettles and brought out a glossy black rat.
    Billy snatched the rat from her, crying, "Rembrandt!"
    Rembrandt, equally pleased to see Billy, squeaked delightedly.
    "He loves that kettle," said Mrs. Kettle. "He's tried