The Midnight Hour Read online

  “Ha!” she said. “I’m a genius.”

  The Hog cracked one eye open, then shook his head and went back to sleep.

  After that the day passed in a whirl of activity. She got her dad’s battered old computer going and looked some things up to confirm her suspicions. She started with the invention of the gramophone, then moved on to music websites, muttering to herself as she did.

  “Oh, you sneaky cow.”

  Then she researched diagrams of clockwork, relating to one big clock in particular, and found out something very interesting about how the timing was fine-tuned. Once again, she had cause to mutter about sneaky cows.

  Curiosity satisfied, she dug out two massive cardboard boxes that were folded flat in her mom’s crowded studio and reassembled them, wrapping all the seams and corners in thick silver gaffer tape from her mom’s toolbox. When they were sturdy enough, she moved them into the hall and then went upstairs.

  She took a long hard look at her many shelves and piles of books, shrugged, and started to grab random armfuls, cart them downstairs, and drop them into one of the boxes. It was slow going, as she kept flipping through the books she was meant to be packing into the box. She just couldn’t help it. After losing ten whole minutes in A Wrinkle in Time, she had to be strict with herself. Picking them up upside down helped.

  She was sweating by the time she was done but, with careful stacking, she had filled the one box and taped it shut. She lined the other box with her quilt and padded it with cushions. She punched a number of holes in the sides with a screwdriver, then stood back to survey her work. She frowned, then grabbed a marker and wrote, “This way up!” with a series of arrows on each side of the box. Satisfied, she headed to the kitchen and made a packed lunch from what was left in the cupboards. She’d always been partial to a chip sammie, anyway.

  It was dark now. Glancing at the clock, Emily wrote out two letters in her best handwriting and put them both in their own envelopes. She wrote a name she partly shared on one, then folded it in half and tucked it inside the other, along with one of the vast red stamps. She sealed the envelope, put a black stamp on it, then addressed it to a friend in a building in St. Martin’s Le Grand that no longer existed. That done, she wrote an address in Bloomsbury that was also a name onto the box of books. She plastered it with all the remaining black stamps, and gagged at the taste of the glue. What did they make that out of? To finish off, she wrote a single true name onto the other box, the one with all the padding in it, and slapped the remaining red stamp on top.

  She slipped her mom’s bomber jacket back on and grabbed the packed lunch, some water, the gaffer tape, and a flashlight. She popped the Hog back in her pocket, clambered into the padded box, and pulled the lid shut. She sat there for a minute, cursed, and got back out. Every time! She ran to the downstairs bathroom for an emergency pee, popped the latch on the front door, then jumped back in. She turned her flashlight on and put one final strip of the tape across the inside of the lid.

  “Well, Hoggins, here goes nothing.”

  After that she sat in her box and waited for midnight.

  She started awake to the sound of the first chimes drifting across the Thames. There were some difficult seconds as the fourth quarter chimes rang out and nothing happened, but then, with the first bong, came the squeak of ill-oiled brakes, and the click of the gate. Of course, it wasn’t midnight until the big bell sang.

  “Now then, whatever’s all this?” The front door squeaked open as the gruff voice spoke. “Oh gawd, would you look at that lot! Where’s blinkin’ Alan when you need him, eh?”

  Somebody came in the house, and there was a rustle as the letter was picked up. “Easy one. Goin’ to see her at the depot.”

  Her box lurched as somebody picked one end up. She had to brace herself against the sides to stop from sliding.

  “Strike a bloomin’ light, that’s heavy.” More shuffling, then a groan of outrage as the weight of the book box was tested. “Won’t no one think of poor old Jonesy’s back? Gawd, I’ll need a truss after this.”

  There were more footsteps, then some rattling and dinging as the man searched for something on his bike. The midnight bongs were ringing out their count across the river. Emily felt sick. How long was this going to take? If the bongs finished, midnight would be over and surely that meant they’d be stuck outside?

  “Where’s that bloomin’ umbrella?”

  There was the click of an umbrella opening, and then all the hair on her arms stood up and her flashlight made a fizzing noise as the bulb inside it popped. The final bongs that had been ringing outside slowed to a long, persistent note. She was inside the little shadow of magic cast by a Night Shade and time had stopped.

  “That’s better,” said Jonesy’s voice, but it was even gruffer and deeper now, and when he gripped the box, he lifted it with a smooth strength, without a moan or a groan. She wondered what Jonesy was, then remembered it was rude to ask.

  “Alley-oop and in the bag.”

  And then Emily was sideways and tumbling, a going-through-a-vacuum-cleaner suction tugged at her brain, and it all went spinny and stomach-churny, and she was … posted.

  Emily blinked back into reality as the box was clunked down on a hard surface. It hurt her butt, despite the layers of quilt and pillow, but she managed not to squeak. She was all bundled up and a bit upside down in one corner of the box, and had sat on her chip sandwiches.

  “Here, love, express delivery for ya to take.”

  That was Jonesy again. His heavy footsteps echoed, and he sounded very large indeed. Did that mean she was in the Midnight Hour? She tried to shift herself without making a noise, and pressed her eye to one of the air holes. She couldn’t see a thing.

  “Another? Whoooo-ever is sending these? None in a decade, and twoooo this week!”

  That voice.

  “S’like omnibuses, innit? See ya later, feathers.”

  “Goodbye, Mr. Jones. Give my best to the goats.”

  Jonesy clumped away, and a soft, almost soundless step came close to the box.

  “How very unusual.”

  There was a whisper of movement, then a huge eye was pressed to the same hole Emily’s was, and she had to jam a hand in her mouth not to scream.

  “Oh-hoo! I see.” The eye moved away. “Of course, the post must never be used for transporting people. A good job it isn’t, I think.”

  The softest of touches on the top of the box, as feathered fingers ran over it, then a smooth sensation of movement, and the box was lifted without any tipping, tilting, or groaning.

  “Hold tight once more then, featherling.”

  Then came the vacuum-cleaner effect again and Emily was plunged back into the postbag.

  She came back to herself this time, as a bell jangled and a door rattled shut.

  “Night Post, express delivery!”

  “What’s all that?” snarled a deep voice. “We’re shutting this station in the hemergency. You’ll have to come back.”

  Emily was sliding around as the parcel moved with the owl-lady who flowed on dancer’s feet.

  “I seek a Tarkus Poswa.”

  “Ain’t nobody called that here.”

  “Of course there is, or the stamp wouldn’t have brought us here.”

  A chair screeched back, and heavy feet hit the floor.

  “I said there ain’t no Possum here. Now get out, we’re in a state of hemergency!”

  Emily’s heart sank, but then …

  “Uhmm, Sarge?”

  “What is it, Postlewhite? You’re supposed to be getting them drains unblocked, ain’t you?”

  “Working on it, Sarge. It’s just, I think that’s for me.”

  “WHAT?” the Sarge roared. Emily decided she didn’t like him very much at all.

  “It’s an … erm … common misspelling of my name.” Even Tarkus didn’t sound convinced by this.

  “Reeeeally?” said the Sarge.

  “Erm, yes,” said Tarkus.


  “And that,” shouted the Sarge, “is why I don’t hold with all that readin’ and writin’! You can’t trust it. Now get it out of my sight, Possum.”

  “Let me help you with that, young man,” said the owl-lady. “It’s very heavy indeed.”

  “Oi,” muttered Emily.

  There was the sound of another door opening, then the package settled onto a hard surface.

  “Here, a very important package. I’d open it privately if I were you.” There was a flutter of feathers. “Oh, and young man—your real name is beau-ooh-tiful. It suits you.”

  There was nothing but a shuffling of shoes in response from Tarkus.

  “Good luck, featherlings.”

  A swish and a swoosh and the sound of the door closing. There was silence, then Emily was pitched and rolled as Tarkus shook the box.

  “Hey, careful!” she said.

  There was a muffled squeak of surprise, then a scrabbling, a scratching, and she had to duck away as something sharp and pointy sliced along the tape. She squinted against the sudden radiance, the gas lamps were bright after the dark of the box. The brightness was blotted out by the face of a very, very angry ghûl.

  “YOU!”

  She unfolded herself from the pretzel shape she was in and creaked to her feet, her back aching. They were in a small side office, with little more than a desk, a chair, and a lot of big folders on shelves. There was a harsh, peppery scent in the air, abrasive to the nose. That was a first in her rage-inducing career. She’d never made anybody smell angry before.

  “Look—”

  “What were you thinking? That’s not my name here!” His yellow eyes glowed brighter than the gas lamps.

  “I’m sorry! I didn’t know if the stamp would work otherwise, and it doesn’t matter.” His face grew ever more thunderous but she pressed on. “There’s some serious police stuff you need to know about. We’ve got to get help.”

  “No. No more of your nonsense. You are under arrest.”

  He was patting his pockets as he talked.

  “For what?”

  “Assaulting an officer! Ah ha!” He brandished bright silver handcuffs.

  “You fell down a hole!”

  His eyes glowed even brighter. Hopefully he wouldn’t set his eyebrows on fire.

  “Abandoning an officer, then! Handing over vital evidence.” He advanced on her, handcuffs dangling. She edged around the side of the desk, away from him.

  “The coins were mine, and you nearly strangled me with them!”

  He paused at that. She spoke fast, keeping the desk in the way, just in case.

  “Look, I didn’t come here to argue. I came here to … well.” She looked at her feet. “I came here to say sorry to start with.”

  “Oh,” he said.

  “What?”

  “Well, that’s a surprise.” His face was unreadable. “I didn’t think you were a ‘sorry’ type of person.”

  “What’s that meant to … ?” She stopped herself. “I suppose I’m not, normally. But I shouldn’t have left you down the hole. Sorry.

  “And,” she said, before he could start. “I shouldn’t have gone off with the coins, but you totally shouldn’t have tried to snatch them, either.”

  He nodded, a tight little gesture.

  “I, also, am sorry for that.”

  “Well, me too.”

  There was a brief silence between them. The background scent changed to something sweet and herbal, a leaf her mom might have cooked with once.

  “You’re still under arrest, of course.”

  “WHAT?”

  “Ha! Your face!”

  She hadn’t heard him laugh before. It was dry and high and kind.

  “Oh, very funny, Violet.”

  “Why are you here? What happened with the Nocturne?” He put the handcuffs away in his pocket and sagged back on the desk. “I tried to tell the Sarge about it, but he won’t listen because the city’s in chaos right now.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “The Angry Dead have rioted. They’re demanding to leave the Hour. Idiots.” His face was gaunt with tiredness. “There’s been mayhem everywhere. We’re run ragged, every officer is out on the streets, and they’ve called in the reserves.”

  “Then why are you still here?” she said.

  The flame of his eyes glowed from under heavy brows as he glared at her.

  “Because I am restricted to desk duties after losing both my official truncheon and an important prisoner, then being found in a sewer.”

  “Ah. Look, I apologize, okay.”

  “Yes, you said. I’m still considering whether to accept it or not.”

  “I’m sure you’ll see the funny side. In the meantime, there’s some VERY important things you need to know.”

  He let out a long-suffering sigh.

  “Go on.”

  “You’re a what?”

  “I know. It’s all a shock to me, too. I mean, does that make me part rabbit or what?” She twitched her nose. “I don’t even eat vegetables, let alone grass.”

  “Hare.”

  “I’m not eating that, either,” she said.

  “No, hare. Pooka can be hares, hounds, and horses.” He shook his head with disapproval. “Why do you not know this? Heritage is important.”

  “I didn’t know I had a flippin’ heritage until I grew massive ears and legged it. It was …” She paused, unsure. “… it was weird and kinda cool, I suppose. But mainly weird. I mean, like, where did my pants go?”

  “So you’re a beast of ill-omen? Well, that explains why you can hold the pennies …” Tarkus leaned back in his seat with a scowl and folded his arms. “… and a great deal about my week so far.”

  “Enough moaning. Mistakes happened, we’ve all learned something.” She flinched as Pat and his sad smile filled her head. “We need to do something. It’s all a big plan. I’ve figured it out, I think.” She tried not to gabble as she explained something that would have sounded like total nonsense to her a few days ago.

  “She’s bringing in new music from my world to power herself up. That’s why she’s not gone as wobbly as the Library.” She slammed the desk with her hand. “I know why she needs my mom, too! She’s going to get her to put the bad pennies onto the pendulum inside Big Ben.”

  “What? Why?” Tarkus rocked forward again, his hands slapping the desk as the chair shifted under him.

  “Because the timing is set by—guess what—old coins!” She was proud of figuring this out. “I looked it up on the interne—a big library we have on my side. They use pennies on the pendulum to make tiny adjustments to keep it accurate. It sounds mad but it’s true.”

  Tarquin’s eyes went wide.

  “So, the most important clock and spell in both worlds …” he said.

  “… only works because of an exact number of old coins,” she finished for him. “Imagine what a whole lot of cursed pennies could do.”

  “But breaking the spell … that’s madness.”

  “She isn’t going to break it, though. She said she’s going to get control of it and take all the magic with her so she can go into the Daylight realm. She’s going to let all her nasties out with her, too.”

  Tarkus went a peculiar green color, and the sour fug of rotting leaves filled the small room.

  “But without magic … if time moves again, the Midnight Hour will pop like a bubble! We’d all be plunged back into the Daylight realm!” His big yellow eyes brimmed with tears. “My family can’t survive there anymore! They’d be hunted. Without magical protection, we’d never be safe again.”

  The hot shame from before returned threefold and left her feeling sick.

  “Why? Why would she do this?” said Tarkus, face twisted with anguish.

  “She wants the magic and the music all for herself, and she doesn’t care what happens to anybody else.” Emily shuddered at the memory of those eyes. “She looks fancy but she’s just … all emptiness and hunger. She talks about wanting to be free,
but I think she just wants the power.”

  Tarkus’s lips moved as his mind raced.

  “This would destroy my home, all our homes. We were meant to be safe here.”

  His eyes dipped from their usual golden yellow to a burnt bronze color.

  “I don’t know what it would do to your world, but … all of the Angry Dead released, her with the midnight spell? Nowhere would be safe.”

  Silence filled the space between them. Tarkus’s eyes began to burn brighter.

  “I won’t see my family suffer again, nor anybody else’s. I have to stop her.”

  “I have to stop her—it’s all my fault,” said Emily.

  “I thought you just wanted to go home.”

  She flushed beet red.

  “Yeah, well, I’ve had a chance to think about that. It’s amazing how being a massive rabbit can—”

  “Hare.”

  “Whatever, Trevor. How being a massive HARE can make you think about stuff.” She looked straight into his yellow, fiery eyes. “I’m sorry I was a git. Let’s stop her together and get my mom and dad back. And that’s totally the last apology you’re getting.”

  “Accepted, Miss Featherhaugh. What are we going to do?”

  “I’ve got a bit of a plan. I’ve sent for help, because I’m not an idiot, but she’s got the Bear and who knows what else. What about the Watch?”

  Tarkus’s face twisted in frustration.

  “Sarge wouldn’t listen. The only reason I haven’t been dismissed yet is because of the uprising. There’s not a Night Watch officer in London who isn’t out on the stree …” He trailed off. “That’s very convenient, isn’t it?”