Free Starcross by Philip Reeve

that he held the others in his power. Like a well-dressed Rugby-football scrum, they charged at Mother. She realised much faster than I had that our friends were not quite in their right minds. She felled Colonel Quivering and Mr Grindle with well-aimed blows, but the others proved too many for her. I stumbled forward to try and help her, but someone seized me, and I could only watch as Mr Munkulus pinioned Mother with his four strong arms while Mr Spinnaker pressed a pad of lint over her nose and mouth. For a moment she struggled violently, then the life seemed to go out of her; her eyes rolled upward, her lovely head drooped and she was bundled towards the door.

    Good Lord! I remember thinking. Chloroform!
    An instant later a pad of the same soft, scratchy stuff was crushed against my own face. A dreadful reek filled my nostrils. Through watering eyes I glimpsed a sliver of light widening as Myrtle’s door opened, and heard her give a piercing shriek and slam it closed again. ‘Myrtle!’ I remember shouting, or trying to shout, lint-muffled and fainting. I struggled against unconsciousness with all my might – and it was not enough.
    The last thing I saw was Mother being manhandled down the stairs. The last thing I heard was Grindle putting his shoulder to the door of Myrtle’s room. Then I fell down and down into unutterable dark …

    And there this portion of my tale must end, for I knew no more. So I shall hand over this account to another narrator, and we must all pray that she does not spend too much time going on about frocks – A.M.

Chapter Eight

    In Which the Narrative Is Continued by Another Hand.
    My name is Myrtle Evangeline Mumby. My brother, Arthur, has asked me to contribute my account of our adventures at Starcross for publication in his latest volume of memoirs. I was reluctant to do so at first, for it is so undignified to have adventures, and even more so to write about them afterward so that common people may read of them on omnibuses and the like. However, it occurs to me that if I do not do as Art asks, he will simply steal the relevant pages from my diary and publish them, as he did the last time, the little brute. So what follows is an account of all that befell me from the moment that Art and Mother were so rudely abducted. I present it here on the STRICT UNDERSTANDING that Mr Wyatt does NOT illustrate it with a picture of me in my night attire.

    I was awoken on the night in question by a faint rapping or knocking sound. It took a while to rouse me, for I had been lost in the innocent wonderland of my girlish dreams. Indeed, I had been dreaming that Jack Havock, who until quite recently had been the unworthy recipient of my maidenly affections, was stood on my balcony in the starlight and was tapping at the windowpane.
    At last the persistence of the noise roused me to wakefulness, and I leapt up, drew back the curtain and saw that Jack Havock actually was standing on my balcony and tapping at the windowpane!
    Naturally, I do not approve of young men paying midnight visits to the balconies of young ladies. Especially if the young man in question has consistently failed to reply to the young lady’s letters, and held conversations with attractive foreigners in public places. I made shooing motions, and shut the curtains.

    Myrtle in her night attire.
    After a brief pause, the gentle, insistent tapping resumed. I went back to bed and pulled one of the pillows over my head, but I could still hear it. It was most vexing. Did Jack think that he could win back my affections by pursuing me in this unseemly manner? At last, driven almost to distraction, I stood up and opened the curtain again.
    This time, he was pressing a crumpled scrap of paper to the glass. Upon it he had scrawled a single word:
    DANGER
    I opened the window and whispered angrily, ‘Jack Havock, your handwriting is a perfect disgrace, and anyway, what do you mean, “danger”?’
    Jack, with no regard at all for the niceties