The Boy Who Could Fly. Laura Ruby

      For Steve, for making order out of chaos.

      - Laura

      “I am always at a loss to know how much to believe of my own stories.”

      Washington Irving, from Tales of a Traveller, 1824

      Contents

       Title Page Dedication Mr Fuss Makes A Fuss Chapter One: The Saddest Little Rich Girl In The Universe Chapter Two: Eight Arms To Hold You Chapter Three: Pinkwater’S Momentary Lapse Of Concentration Chapter Four: Bad Chapter Five: Punk Rock Chapter Six: Patience And Fortitude Chapter Seven: The It Club Chapter Eight: Good Dog Chapter Nine: How Much Is That Demon In The Window? Chapter Ten: Mega Megatherium Chapter Eleven: Hero Chapter Twelve: Maybe It’S The Fangs Chapter Thirteen: Old Crow Chapter Fourteen: Mandelbrot Chapter Fifteen: Running Amuck Chapter Sixteen: The Queen Says “Stupid!” Chapter Seventeen: Hitting The Books Chapter Eighteen: Woof Chapter Nineteen: Ok, Potato Chapter Twenty: Hello, Hewitt Chapter Twenty One: The Book Of The Undead Chapter Twenty Two: Like You, Like You Chapter Twenty Three: Art Appreciation Chapter Twenty Four: Hangman Chapter Twenty Five: The Temple Of Dendur Chapter Twenty Six: Goddess Worship Chapter Twenty Seven: Chaos Fussy Also By Laura Ruby Copyright About the Publisher

       The Chapter Before the First

      Mr Fuss Makes a Fuss

      He was too old for this, far too old. The storm drain was cold and damp and smelled of mildew. A thin trickle of water that wended its way down the concrete tunnel splashed each time he planted one of his feet. At first, he’d tried flying, but found it too exhausting to do for very long. Instead, he’d settled for this ungainly shuffle-run. The floor was slippery and he’d already fallen once, his knee bleeding through a tear in one trouser leg. (Lord, how he hated wearing trousers.)

      Still, he struggled on. In one arm, he held what looked like a human hand mounted on a black marble base; in the other, a tiny gilded birdcage in which a blue budgie twittered and sang. Various other items bulged in the pockets of his jacket. A white kitten popped her head from his breast pocket, saw where she was, squeaked, and pulled her head back in.

      Where are we going? The Answer Hand said, using sign language.

      The Professor grunted. “I hate it when you ask questions you know the answers to.”

      The cats aren’t happy.

      Behind The Professor, more than a hundred cats hopped daintily around the trickle of water and wrinkled their noses at the mouldy smell.

      “Are cats ever happy?”

      You’d be surprised, said The Answer Hand. Sun spots on carpets make them happy. A good long nap. Chewing on the houseplants. Sitting on the laps of people who can’t stand them. The Answer Hand pointed accusingly with its index finger before beginning again: Cats don’t like wet things. They don’t like stinky things. The cats, The Hand said, are very annoyed.

      The Professor glanced back and had to agree, though he would never say so. “I thought you weren’t supposed to give any answers unless I asked you a specific question?”

      You asked if cats were ever happy and I told you. As for the rest, maybe I’m getting tired of waiting to be asked.

      “Perfect,” The Professor replied. “That’s just what I need.”

      What you need is to move faster.

      “You are so helpful. Where’s the man now?”

      He’s still a few kilometres back, The Answer Hand signed. But gaining. He dislikes you intensely.

      “I figured that out myself.”

      Amazing! Well, that’s something to celebrate. Which we could do if we were back at home instead of running through the bowels of the city because we lost the most powerful object we’d ever invented.

      “Who’s this ‘we’ that you’re talking about? I invented the pen.”

      And then you lost it. And that’s not the only thing you lost. I wouldn’t be so proud of myself if I were you.

      “I’m not proud of myself,” The Professor snapped.

      Also something to celebrate, signed The Answer Hand. The Professor was astonished that something that didn’t even have its own face could achieve such magnificent sarcasm.

      “At least we know the crows have the pen,” said The Professor.

      I told you who had the pen. But that’s not going to help much if we can’t get to them before they do something stupid. You know how they are about shiny things. I think you need to reconsider my plan.

      “It’s too complicated. It will never work. Besides, you also told me that the book is in the library. It’s safe.”

      Is it? said The Hand.

      “Of course it is,” The Professor huffed. “Nobody can awaken the book unless they use the pen, and then only if they write precisely the correct thing. Only if the pen wants it to happen. And the odds of that are—”

      Fifteen trillion to one, The Hand said.

      “See? Impossible.”

      For once, The Answer Hand didn’t answer. Thoughtfully, it rubbed its thumb and middle finger together.