Mr. Frost looked delighted. Then he said, “I wouldn’t want to put her out of her way, I mean.”
“She’s loving it,” said Scarlett, truthfully. “Thank you for giving me a lift home.”
“More than welcome,” said Mr. Frost. They walked together down the steps in Mr. Frost’s high narrow house, to the little entrance hall at the bottom of the stairs.
In Krakow, on Wawel Hill, there are caves called the Dragon’s Den, named after a long dead dragon. These are the caves that the tourists know about. There are caves beneath those caves that the tourists do not know and do not ever get to visit. They go down a long way, and they are inhabited.
Silas went first, followed by the grey hugeness of Miss Lupescu, padding quietly on four feet just behind him. Behind them was Kandar, a bandage-wrapped Assyrian mummy with powerful eagle-wings and eyes like rubies, who was carrying a small pig.
There had originally been four of them, but they had lost Haroun in a cave far above, when the Ifrit, as naturally overconfident as are all of its race, had stepped into a space bounded by three polished bronze mirrors and had been swallowed up in a blaze of bronze light. In moments the Ifrit could only be seen in the mirrors, and no longer in reality. In the mirrors his fiery eyes were wide open, and his mouth was moving as if he was shouting at them to leave and beware, and then he faded and was lost to them.
Silas, who had no problems with mirrors, had covered one of them with his coat, rendering the trap useless.
“So,” said Silas. “Now there are only three of us.”
“And a pig,” said Kandar.
“Why?” asked Miss Lupescu, with a wolf-tongue, through wolf teeth. “Why the pig?”
“It’s lucky,” said Kandar.
Miss Lupescu growled, unconvinced.
“Did Haroun have a pig?” asked Kandar, simply.
“Hush,” said Silas. “They are coming. From the sound of it, there are many of them.”
“Let them come,” whispered Kandar.
Miss Lupescu’s hackles were rising. She said nothing, but she was ready for them, and it was only by an effort of will that she did not throw back her head and howl.
“It’s beautiful up this way,” said Scarlett.
“Yes,” said Bod.
“So, your family were all killed?” said Scarlett. “Does anyone know who did it?”
“No. Not that I know. My guardian only says that the man who did it is still alive, and that he’ll tell me the rest of what he knows one day.”
“One day?”
“When I’m ready.”
“What’s he scared of? That you’d strap on your gun and ride out to wreak vengeance on the man who killed your family?”
Bod looked at her seriously. “Well, obviously,” he said. “Not a gun, though. But yes. Something like that.”
“You’re joking.”
Bod said nothing. His lips were tight-pressed together. He shook his head. Then he said, “I’m not joking.”
It was a bright and sunny Saturday morning. They were just past the entrance to the Egyptian Walk, out of the direct sunlight, under the pines and the sprawling monkey puzzle tree.
“Your guardian. Is he a dead person too?”
Bod said, “I don’t talk about him.”
Scarlett looked hurt. “Not even to me?”
“Not even to you.”
“Well,” she said. “Be like that.”
Bod said, “Look, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean—” just as Scarlett said, “I promised Mr. Frost I wouldn’t be too long. I’d better be getting back.”
“Right,” said Bod, worried he had offended her, unsure what he should say to make anything better.
He watched Scarlett head off on the winding path back to the chapel. A familiar female voice said, with derision, “Look at her! Miss high and mighty!” but there was no one to be seen.
Bod, feeling awkward, walked back to the Egyptian Walk. Miss Lillibet and Miss Violet had let him store a cardboard box filled with old paperback books in their vault, and he wanted to find something to read.
Scarlett helped Mr. Frost with his graverubbings until midday, when they stopped for lunch. He offered to buy her fish and chips as a thank-you, and they walked down to the fish and chip shop at the bottom of the road, and as they walked back up the hill they ate their steaming fish and chips, drenched in vinegar and glittering with salt, out of paper bags.
Scarlett said, “If you wanted to find out about a murder, where would you look? I already tried the Internet.”
“Um. Depends. What kind of murder are we talking about?”
“Something local, I think. About thirteen or fourteen years ago. A family was killed around here.”
“Crikey,” said Mr. Frost. “This really happened?”
“Oh yes. Are you all right?”
“Not really. Bit too, well, bit of a wimp, really. Things like that, I mean, local true crime, you don’t like to think about it. Things like that, happening here. Not something I’d expect a girl of your age to be interested in.”