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  Standing up, Fidget said, “I have the advantage of nine lives, eight of which are still available to me. You, old girl, on the other paw, have only one. You need to take action. Otherwise … well … the otherwise is a fur ball in my throat.”

  “You are right,” said Miss String. She picked up the phone.

  “Who are you calling?” asked Fidget.

  “Alfred Twizell. He will know what needs to be done.”

  “Alfred. Ottoline String here,” said Miss String. “The you know whats seem to have found a new keeper.”

  There was silence on the line, then, “A new keeper, you say?” said Alfred Twizell. Miss String could tell by the tone of his voice that he was excited. “Who? Who is it?”

  “A little girl called Emily Vole.”

  “When did this happen?”

  “Today. We opened the chest where your Elizabethan ruff and gloves are kept along with the keys. I didn’t think for a moment that anything would happen. Oh, Alfred, it is a gold-letter day if ever there was one. We’ve waited half a millennium for this!”

  Alfred replied almost in a whisper. “You’d better come and see me straightaway. Emily Vole will need protection.”

  “I hadn’t thought of that.”

  “And, my dear Miss String,” said Alfred Twizell, “please take care.”

  Chapter Eight

  Mr. Charlie Cuddle, 98, was driving along Broad Street when he saw a witch on a broomstick. She appeared to be heading straight for him. That’s when Mr. Cuddle’s foot slipped off the brake onto the accelerator and he ran over Miss Ottoline String.

  Emily knew nothing of this until much later that day. She wasn’t worried that neither Fidget nor Miss String had come round to help. How could they when Daisy and the triplets were stuck at home? The children had been cast to appear as three peas in an advertising campaign for frozen vegetables and had been filming yesterday. Now their skin was stained green, their blond hair the color of mold. Daisy blamed the makeup department and demanded that someone come and sort this mess out right away—otherwise, she would sue.

  Just after lunch, the doorbell rang. Daisy grabbed hold of Emily.

  “Now, not a squeak from you—or else,” she said, locking Emily in the laundry room.

  Daisy opened the front door. Standing there was a very tall woman. She wore neon orange platform shoes and had to stoop to get into the hall. Her hair was bright pink with purple streaks; she had a very fine nose, red lips, and enormous eyes that swam around like piranhas in a pond. She was dressed from head to toe in designer clothes.

  Stooping toward Daisy, she held out a long, thin hand with steel-red fingernails.

  “I am Doris Harper,” she said, but withdrew her hand as if scalded when Daisy tried to shake it. Doris Harper sniffed. Then sniffed again.

  “Are you from the makeup department?” asked Daisy.

  “I might as well be,” replied the woman.

  “Oh, thank goodness,” said Daisy.

  At that moment, the three cutiekins rushed from the kitchen on yet another round of demolition. They banged into Ms. Harper and, without a “sorry” between them, rushed up the stairs, sounding like a small herd of hippos.

  Emily had no way of seeing all this, locked as she was in the laundry room. Still, she didn’t like the sound of Doris Harper’s icy voice one bit. She heard the triplets rush back into the kitchen, screaming, and then all was eerily quiet.

  “My word,” Daisy Dashwood said. “You do have a knack with children.”

  “You have another child?” said Doris Harper.

  “No,” said Daisy.

  “Liar, liar, pants on fire,” said Ms. Harper coldly.

  “My daughters’ skin,” said Daisy. “It’s tinged green.”

  Emily could tell from Daisy’s voice that she was worried. What the triplets were doing, Emily couldn’t think, for they were never this quiet.

  “Tomorrow,” said Daisy in a high-pitched squeal, “they have an audition to be the Fairy Godmother’s little fairy helpers in the Christmas pantomime.”

  There was silence, and Emily thought they must all have gone to the upstairs bathroom. She nearly jumped out of her skin when she saw an eye peering through the slatted blinds of the window. She hid as best she could, her heart beating double fast.

  “Cooeee, Ms. Harper,” called Daisy. “You forgot this.”

  And the eye disappeared.

  Emily’s ear was now firmly glued to the laundry room door.

  “It’s a very unusual broom,” said Daisy. “Is it a prop for a children’s play?”

  Emily couldn’t catch the reply. The front door closed.

  * * *

  Ronald Dashwood returned home that evening to find his three daughters sitting as still as dolls in front of the television. He gave each one a kiss.

  “Do you notice anything different about them?” Daisy asked him.

  “Yes, I notice that for once our cutiekins are quiet, like good girls should be.”

  “They just don’t seem themselves,” said Daisy. “Ever since that woman from the makeup department came.”

  “She seems to have done the job,” said Ronald. “No green skin. Smoochikins, don’t look so worried. Everything is fine, isn’t it, girls?”

  “Yes, Father,” they replied together. “Everything’s just fine.”

  “Quite,” said Ronald, a little less sure.

  He took off his jacket, poured himself a stiff drink, and pulled out the evening paper.

  “Listen to this, Smoochikins,” he said. “You heard about the car smash in Broad Street, didn’t you?”

  Daisy’s mind was elsewhere, but Emily was listening as she loaded the dishwasher.

  “It’s been on the local radio all day,” continued Ronald. “You’ll like this. Mr. Charlie Cuddle, 98, said the reason he lost control of the car was because he saw a witch on a broomstick. She had flaming pink and purple hair and bright orange shoes.” Ronald stopped. “This is the best bit—listen. Mrs. Cuddle, 86, of Pond Street, said her husband was always seeing things and last week saw a unicorn in the garden.” Ronald burst out laughing. “I know it’s not funny, but it is. The police suspect the real reason for the accident was that Mr. Cuddle was driving in his bedroom slippers.”

  For a reason Emily didn’t understand, she felt a cold shiver go down her spine.

  The doorbell rang. Daisy went to answer it.

  “There must be some mistake,” Emily heard Daisy say to a softly spoken woman. “Someone from the makeup department has already been here.”

  Then Emily knew for certain that something terrible had happened. “Was anyone hurt in the accident?” she asked Ronald.

  “Yes,” said Ronald. “It’s a bit of luck for us. It was the old bat next door.”

  Chapter Nine

  Emily’s world had come to an end with the death of Miss String. To add to her misery, Fidget, too, had disappeared. Her life couldn’t get any worse.

  She decided two things. First, she would not be the Dashwoods’ adopted slave anymore. Second, she would finally put her plan into action and run away.

  * * *

  Daisy Dashwood was beside herself with worry. Not about Emily, of course. No, it was her three cutiekins. Ever since Doris Harper’s visit, Peach, Petal, and Plum had become zombies.

  The doctor examined them. He told Mrs. Dashwood that they were all perfectly healthy—and beautifully behaved.

  “That’s the trouble,” wailed Daisy Dashwood. “They’re not themselves! Before, they could wreck a house if they put their minds to it.”

  “Isn’t this better?” said the doctor kindly.

  “You don’t understand,” wept Daisy. “Someone has stolen my girls.”

  “Mrs. Dashwood,” said the doctor, “you seem to be under a lot of stress.”

  “I’m fine,” said Daisy, “but my girls are gone.”

  “No, Mrs. Dashwood,” said the doctor. “They are in the next room, watching TV.” The tone of his voice had
changed now. He was certain Mrs. Dashwood was quite bonkers.

  Daisy let Emily out of the laundry room when the doctor had left.

  “The dishwasher needs emptying, the toilets need scrubbing, and so do the baths. Then you can vacuum the house from top to bottom.”

  Emily took a deep breath. “No,” she said.

  “No?” repeated Daisy.

  “No,” said Emily. “I won’t, and I don’t care what you do about it.”

  Daisy’s mouth fell open. Never in all her life had Emily spoken to Daisy like this.

  “Oh, my days. As if I don’t have enough to worry about! You will do as you are told, and that’s the end of it.” She stopped. “I have a headache. I’m going to lie down. When I come back, I want everything to be spick-and-span. And no more smart talk.”

  Emily went to find Peach, Petal, and Plum. They were in the lounge, sitting log-still on the sofa, staring vacantly at the television.

  “Peach,” said Emily, “you are to unload the dishwasher. Plum, you are to clean the toilets and the baths. Petal, you are to vacuum the whole house from top to bottom.”

  The three zombies went to work. For the first time in ages, Emily sat down and watched a television program. It was a detective series in which an old lady who knitted seemed able to solve all sorts of crimes. Emily thought that was what she wanted to be—not old or knitting, but a detective. And then she would solve the mystery of her missing parents.

  These thoughts were interrupted when Daisy Dashwood woke up, saw what was happening, charged into the lounge, and unplugged the TV.

  “How dare you make my little cutiekins do all the work for you?” she said. “When Ronald comes home, he will deal with you, miss.”

  As Emily didn’t care anymore about anything, she said, “I am nine years old. Since the age of five, I have worked for you day and night. I have never been given a birthday present, a Chrimbo present, as you call it, or even an Easter egg. I would rather go back to the orphanage than stay here another day.”

  For once, Daisy Dashwood was lost for words.

  Peach, Petal, and Plum filed back into the lounge.

  “Is there anything else you want us to do, Emily Vole?”

  “Yes,” she said. “Plug in the TV again, please.”

  Daisy burst into tears and screamed, “Play and run around like you used to, my cutiekins.”

  The triplets said with one voice, “We don’t do that any longer, Mother.”

  “It’s Mum. You always called me Mum.”

  Taking no notice whatsoever, the triplets did what Emily told them to do, then sat in a row next to her.

  Daisy phoned Ronald. He rushed home, fearing the worst.

  “What is it, Smoochikins?” he said, finding Daisy in the kitchen in tears.

  “Emily’s gone on strike, and the girls have been snatched.”

  “What?” said Ronald. He pulled out his mobile phone. “We must call the police! Have you called the police?”

  “No,” said Daisy, “because the girls are mindless zombies.”

  Ronald checked on his daughters. They were playing Snakes and Ladders in the lounge without a word being said between them. No fighting for the dice, no hair pulling, no shouts or screams. It was all very strange.

  “How are my little cutiekins?” asked Ronald.

  “Very well, Father,” they said together in the same dull voice.

  Ronald thought they were downright spooky. He was on his way back into the kitchen when the doorbell rang.

  “Emily,” Ronald hissed to Daisy, which was the signal for Emily to be locked away in the laundry room. But his wife didn’t move.

  Ronald opened the door. There was no one there, or so he thought. Then he heard a voice say, “Hello, I am Alfred Twizell of Alfred & Alfred Solicitors.”

  Ronald stared down at a tiny man.

  “Come again?” said Ronald.

  “I am Alfred Twizell, Miss String’s solicitor. May I come in?”

  And before Ronald could work out whether that was a good idea or not, Mr. Twizell was walking toward the dining room as if he knew his way around the house.

  “Smoochikins, we have a visitor,” called Ronald.

  Mr. Alfred Twizell had a kind, understanding face. He opened his briefcase and spread his papers out before him.

  “I have come regarding the last will and testament of Miss Ottoline String,” he said to the startled Dashwoods.

  “What’s that got to do with us?” said Daisy.

  “Nothing,” replied Mr. Twizell. “But it has everything to do with Emily Vole. It is Emily Vole I am here to see.”

  Chapter Ten

  Emily was busy packing the few things she owned into the little cardboard suitcase. Her mind was made up. The minute the Dashwoods went to bed that night, she would run away.

  There was a knock on the laundry room door. Emily quickly hid her suitcase under a sheet.

  “Come in,” she said. No one had ever been so polite as to knock before. Standing in a row were Peach, Petal, and Plum.

  “Mother and Father have a visitor,” they said. “He wants to see you.”

  That’s a turn up for the books, thought Emily as she followed the three zombies into the dining room. Ronald Dashwood sounded angry.

  “This is the stupidest thing I have ever heard. Why would Miss String leave Emily all her worldly goods? She hardly knew the brat.”

  Alfred Twizell stood up when Emily entered the room. He was about the same height as her, with bushy white eyebrows that framed a gentle face. He shook her hand.

  “An honor to meet you at last, Miss Vole. Miss String and Fidget were very fond of you. It’s such a sad time.”

  “Where is Fidget?” asked Emily.

  “Around and about,” said Mr. Twizell. “It’s been a busy week, what with the funeral and one thing and another. It’s all very discombobulating.”

  “Come again?” said Daisy.

  Alfred Twizell repeated the word. “Dis-com-bob-u-lat-ing. It means unsettling.”

  “Oh, my days! Why couldn’t you just say that in the first place? Look here, Mr. Whatever Your Tangled-Up Name Is, I’m telling you, Emily never even met the old—” Daisy stopped.

  “You are wrong,” said Mr. Twizell firmly.

  He explained to Emily that Miss String’s house and its contents were to be sold. “All the money from the sale will be kept in a trust fund until you are eighteen. Of course, you can call on it sooner if there is an emergency.”

  “Well, that’s going to amount to nothing more than a bucket of pigs’ tails,” said Daisy. “The house is falling down, and it’s full of rubbish.”

  “Sotheby’s, the auctioneers from London, are there at the moment taking stock,” continued Mr. Twizell.

  “Of what?” said Daisy. “A pile of old tat?”

  Mr. Twizell looked at Mrs. Dashwood. “That tat, as you call it, is priceless. Much of it will be going to museums and private collectors.”

  Ronald coughed. His ears were beginning to turn even more red than usual.

  “How much, exactly, is priceless? Are we talking hundreds of thousands?”

  Mr. Twizell ignored the question and addressed Emily. “Miss String also left you a small shop.”

  “A shop?” repeated Ronald. “Are you a joker? Yes, you are, aren’t you? Haven’t I seen you on television? Smoochikins, he’s just winding us up. You’re from that program—what’s it called? I’m right, aren’t I? This is a spoof.”

  “No, it’s not,” said Alfred Twizell.

  “You can’t be serious. The girl’s too young to own a toothbrush,” said Ronald.

  “But not too young,” replied Mr. Twizell, “to be your unpaid servant.”

  “That’s a bit strong,” said Ronald. “We’ve done our very best by her, haven’t we, Smoochikins? We adopted her out of the goodness of our hearts. It’s not our fault she’s as thick as a brick. She’s away with the fairies, unteachable.”

  “Balderdash,” said Mr. Twiz
ell. “Miss String taught Miss Vole English, French, German, math, and history.”

  “French? German?” said Daisy. “Don’t be daft.”

  Mr. Twizell said something to Emily in French.

  “Je m’appelle Emily Vole,” she replied. “Which means ‘My name is Emily Vole.’”

  “You what?” said Daisy, flabbergasted.

  Then Mr. Twizell asked Emily another question, this time in German. Emily answered fluently, in a perfect German accent.

  “Well, I never,” said Daisy. “Does that gobbledygook make sense to you, Ronald?”

  “Yes, Smoochikins,” Ronald said, astonished.

  Mr. Twizell finally spoke to Emily in Old English. He could tell by their puzzled faces that the Dashwoods hadn’t a clue what he was saying. “Fidget will wait for you tonight outside the laundry room window. You must get as far away from here as you can. Do you understand?”

  Emily nodded.

  “You are in great danger,” said Alfred Twizell. “There is not a moment to be lost.”

  “Of course, Ronald and I will be looking after Emily’s finances,” interrupted Daisy Dashwood. She smiled her sweetest smile, fluttering her false eyelashes at Alfred Twizell. “That is, until she is eighteen.”

  “You will do no such thing,” said Alfred Twizell, as he put the papers back into his briefcase. “Neither of you will have any part of Emily’s inheritance. Miss String has made sure of that.” Turning to Emily, he said, “Miss Vole, I will be seeing you very soon.”

  Emily and the Dashwoods followed him into the hall. Only then did Mr. Twizell notice the three zombies, standing there, staring at nothing.

  “May I ask, Mrs. Dashwood, did a tall woman visit last week? A Ms. Harper?”

  “Yes, she was from—”

  “I thought so,” said Alfred Twizell.

  “What does that mean?” shrieked Daisy Dashwood into the oncoming night.

  But Alfred Twizell had vanished.

  Chapter Eleven

  Daisy Dashwood was beside herself with rage. As soon as Alfred Twizell left, she grabbed Emily and gave her a sharp clip round the ear.