Jonathan Stroud

lan F,’ he said. ‘We follow Plan F, right now.’
I looked at him. ‘Is that the one where we run away?’
‘Not at all. It’s the one where we beat a dignified emergency retreat.’
‘You’re thinking of Plan G, Luce,’ George grunted. ‘They’re similar.’

‘You’re a girl,’ Lockwood called. ‘Aren’t you meant to be more sensitive?’
‘To emotions, yes. To nuances of human behaviour. Not necessarily to secret passages in a wall.’
‘Oh, it’s much the same thing.

‘Really?’

‘No. I’m being ironic. Or is it sarcastic? I can never remember.’

‘Irony’s cleverer, so you’re probably being sarcastic.

I stared at him. ‘For a minute there I thought you’d been listening to George.’

‘Lucy, I’ve not been listening to George.’

Take it from me, if you had to choose between him and a basketful of supercute puppies to toss out of a sinking hot-air balloon, it would have been the pups sent spiraling down to earth

“We call it…the Creeping Shadow.”

He sat back and surveyed us with triumphant, hard-eyed finality, as if expecting us to utter groans and gasps of terror, throw ourselves off our seats, and roll on the floor in panic with our legs wiggling in the air.

Lockwood and I stood transfixed at the top of the bank.

Then I realized he was still holding my hand.

He realized it at the same instant. Our fingers kind of fell away, swinging back into vigilant positions at our work belts, ready to seize a salt-bomb or rapier at a moment’s notice. Lockwood cleared his throat; I pushed my hair out of my eyes. Our boots did small, intricate shuffles on the frosty ground.

“What the heck was that?” I said.

“The Shadow?” Lockwood glanced at me from under his bangs. “Of course the Shadow…” He shook his head.

George was, indeed, a thing to behold. Darting out from behind the crates to lob magnesium flares directly at Steve Rotwell

“Ah, two firm friends, reunited at last! There should be sweet violin music playing for us, but I’ll settle for the screams of the dying.

Nearest was Holly. I tapped her on the shoulder, gave her a cheery grin.

“Aaah!”

“Hey, Holly! Holly, don’t shoot me! It’s me! It’s me!”

“Aaah! But you’re dead!”

“No—would a ghost tap you? Would a ghost talk to you…?” I waited. “Would a ghost punch you in the face? You’ll find out if you don’t stop screaming.”

“But you went in the circle…”

“I’m okay. And Lockwood, too—look, he’s over there, with George. Well, don’t start crying now.” I gave her a swift hug. “See? Would a ghost do that? Come on. We’re doing well. George is driving them from the field.”