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“Poxy-nosed scarecrow!” she muttered. “I’ll show him!” She slid out the scullery door into the back yard that served the kitchen. She was not supposed to go into the Castle gardens without permission: Old Foss, the gardener, had complained one too many times to Mrs. O’Dair about stolen apples and inventive booby traps. But today she would risk being caught out of bounds, even if it meant a week on stale bread and cabbage water.

The yew hedges had not been pruned for years. They leant over the yard, tall green-black waves threatening to crash onto the cobbles. Charlie stopped for a moment and cocked her head like a robin, listening. Then she darted to a corner of the yard where the hedge was leggy and sparse. In a moment, she had wriggled through. She crouched at the base of the hedge, scouting for enemies.

The autumn sunshine was so sharp it made the air vibrate. For a moment, she wanted to twirl like a wild thing, crunch through the frosted grass in the tree-shadows, run and run until she collapsed in a heap. But she didn’t dare. Besides, she wasn’t here to play. She was here to pay out Alfie Postlethwaite.

Charlie took off, sprinting across the shrivelled grass and into the old orchard, weaving through the corpses of apple and pear trees. Her heart was thudding from running and the thrill of disobedience.

In the distance, beneath the trills of birdsong, Old Foss’s grumble wormed through the undergrowth. She sped up, skirting the high brick walls of the kitchen garden, where the gardener did daily battle against weeds and old age. Breathless, she peeked through the gate. He and the boy were inside, hoeing the endless rows of winter cabbages. Charlie slipped past the gate, and her heart sang with victory. She trotted past the end of the wall, past blinded greenhouses and rotting sheds, past hillocks of mouldering compost. And there it was: the brown and black mountain of strawy manure, steaming in the sunshine. Her nose wrinkled at the rich smells trickling out of it. She pulled a rusty pencil tin from her skirt pocket and squatted to scoop the tin full of the ooziest lumps she could find, using a spoon she had stolen from the scullery. It was absorbing work, and she grinned, imagining Alfie’s face in the morning.

“Oi! Get out of it!” A hand grabbed her shoulder and spun her round. Tin and spoon went flying. Charlie’s foot slipped, and she plopped, with a squelch, onto the manure. The gardener’s boy stood looking down at her, hands on hips, eyes dancing. “Little Princess Muckheap,” he said and laughed.

“You rotten toad!” She scrambled up, fists clenched. Then she stopped. Tobias was a year older—a year taller and stronger—and she knew from experience that if she hit him, he would hit her back.

“Give me one good reason,” he said, his eyes narrowed thoughtfully, “why I shouldn’t call old Fossy.”

“Because that would make you a snivelling, sneaking worm—as well as a toad!” spat Charlie.

Tobias grinned. His light blue eyes gleamed in the midst of his brownness—brown hair, brown face, brown freckles. She longed to punch his brown nose and see if he still smiled. In all their years of warfare, she had never once managed to make him lose his temper. It was one of the things she hated most about him.

“Toad or worm,” he said, “either one can get you nicked. And then Fossy’ll take you straight to Devil O’Dair. Imightnot fetch Fossy, but it’ll cost you.”

“What do you want?” As if she didn’t know. The smugness spread over his face was past enduring.

“Let me think.” He scratched his head. “What could you possibly have that I’d want? You ain’t got no money, and I don’t play with dolls—”

“Neither do I!”

“—so I guess it’ll have to be another book. It’s calledOne Thousand and One Arabian Nights. Bring it to the summerhouse eight o’clock tomorrow morning.”

“Tomorrow morning!” Charlie’s heart sank. He meant it. If she didn’t deliver, he would serve her up to Fossy and smirk while he did it. Rot and blast Tobias Petch! “That’s not enough time!” she grumbled. “What if I can’t get in the library tonight? Watch might be hanging round. And the morning’s the worst time to try and get out of the Castle. I’d have to get past O’Dair and Maria.”

“That won’t wash, Charlie.” He shook his head. “Climb out a window if you got to. You done it plenty of times. And make sure you hang on till I get there. ’Tain’t always easy getting away.”

“What if I can’t find the book?”

“Then Fossy’ll learn about your visit to the muckheap.”

“You make me sick!” Charlie said.

“Good.” Tobias grinned the self-satisfied grin of the victor. “I’d be going if I was you. Fossy’s nearly done weeding.”

There was nothing to do except leave. She rescued the pencil tin and spoon. Most of the manure was still in the tin. She closed the lid and shoved everything in her pocket.

“What do you want that stuff for anyway?” Tobias asked.

“To put in your porridge!” She stuck out her tongue and ran.