steps into the bus.
‘Got your cape?’ asked Fidelio.
Charlie pulled the rumpled garment out of his bag. ‘I hate wearing it when I walk up Filbert Street. People laugh. There’s a boy at number twenty who always shouts, “Here he comes, Little Boy Blue, off to Bloor’s, like a posh cockatoo!” But I didn’t ask to go to Bloor’s, did I?’
‘You’re not a posh cockatoo,’ laughed Fidelio. ‘I bet you forgot to comb your hair again this morning.’
‘I tried.’
The bus had come to a halt and the two boys joined the crowd of children jumping down into a cobbled square. They walked past a fountain of stone swans and approached the steps leading to Bloor’s Academy.
As Charlie walked into the shadow of the music tower, he found himself looking up at the steep roof of the turret. It had become a habit of his and he scarcely knew why he did it. Once, his mother had told him she felt someone watching her from the small window under the eaves. Charlie gave an involuntary shiver and followed Fidelio through the wide arched entrance.
Surrounded by children in capes of blue, purple and green, Charlie looked for Emma Tolly and Olivia Vertigo. He saw Emma in her green cape, her long blonde hair in two neat plaits, but he was momentarily baffled by the girl beside her. He knew the face but . . . could it be Olivia? She was wearing a purple cape, like everyone else in Drama, but Olivia’s face was usually covered in make-up, and she always dyed her hair a vivid colour. This girl had a scrubbed look: rosy cheeks, grey eyes and short brown hair.
‘Stop staring, Charlie Bone,’ said the brown-haired girl, walking up to him.
‘Olivia?’ Charlie exclaimed. ‘What happened?’
‘I’m auditioning for a part in a movie,’ Olivia told him. ‘Got to look younger than I really am.’
They climbed another set of stone steps, and then they were walking between two huge doors studded with bronze figures. As soon as all the children were safely inside, Weedon, the porter and handyman, closed and locked the doors. They would remain locked until Friday afternoon, when the children were allowed home for the weekend.
Charlie stepped into the vast stone-flagged hall of Bloor’s Academy. ‘What’s the movie?’ he asked Olivia.
‘Sssh!’ hissed a voice from somewhere near Charlie’s ear.
Charlie looked up into a pair of coal-black eyes and nearly jumped out of his skin. He thought Manfred Bloor had left the school.
‘I hope you haven’t forgotten the rules, Charlie Bone!’ barked Manfred.
‘N. . . no, Manfred.’ Charlie didn’t sound too sure.
‘Come on then . . .’ Manfred clicked his fingers and glared at Charlie who looked down at his feet. He didn’t feel like fighting Manfred’s hypnotising stare so early in the day.
‘Come on, what are the rules?’ Manfred demanded.
‘Erm . . .
Silence in the hall,
Talking not at all,
Never cry or call,
Even if you fall,
‘Erm . . .’ Charlie couldn’t remember the last line.
‘Write it out a hundred times and bring it to my study after tea!’ Manfred grinned maliciously.
Charlie didn’t know Manfred had a study, but he had no intention of prolonging the conversation. ‘Yes, Manfred,’ he mumbled.
‘You should be ashamed of yourself. You’re in the second year now. Not a very good example for first-formers are you, Charlie Bone?’
‘Nope.’ Charlie caught sight of Olivia, rolling her eyes at him, and only just managed to stop himself from giggling. Luckily Manfred had spotted someone without a cape and strode away.
Olivia had disappeared into a sea of purple capes whose owners were crowding through a door beneath two bronze masks. Beyond the open door Charlie glimpsed the colourful mess that was already building up inside the purple cloakroom. He hurried on to the sign of two crossed trumpets.
Fidelio was waiting for him just inside the blue cloakroom. ‘Whew! What a shock!’ breathed Fidelio. ‘I thought Manfred had left.’
‘Me too,’ said Charlie. ‘That was the one good thing about coming back to Bloor’s. I thought at least Manfred wouldn’t be here.’
What was Manfred’s new role? Would he be permanently on their tails, watching, listening and hypnotising?
The two boys discussed the problem of Manfred as they walked to Assembly. On the first day of every school year, Assembly was held in the theatre, the only space large enough for all three hundred pupils. Charlie hadn’t joined Bloor’s Academy until the middle of the last autumn term; it was a new experience for him.
‘Yikes! I’d better hurry,’ said Fidelio, looking at his watch. ‘I should be tuning up.’
Dr Saltweather, head of Music, gave Fidelio a severe nod as he climbed up to the stage and took his place in the orchestra. Charlie joined the end of the second row, and found himself standing directly behind Billy Raven. The small albino turned round with a worried frown.
‘I’ve got to stay in the first year for another twelve months,’ he whispered to Charlie, ‘but I’ve already done it twice.’
‘Bad luck! But you are only eight.’ Charlie scanned the row of new children in front of him. They all looked fairly normal, but you could never tell. Some of them might be endowed like himself and Billy; children of the Red King.
For the rest of the morning, Charlie tramped around the huge, draughty building, finding his new classroom, collecting books and looking for Mr Paltry (who was supposed to be giving him a trumpet lesson).
By the time the horn sounded for lunch, Charlie was utterly exhausted. He slouched down to the canteens, averting his eyes from the portraits that hung in the dimly lit corridor – just in case one of them wanted a conversation – and arrived at the blue canteen.
Charlie joined the queue. A small, stout woman behind the counter gave him a wink. ‘All’s well then, Charlie?’ she asked.
‘Yes, thanks, Cook,’ said Charlie. ‘But it’ll take me a while to get used to the second year.’
‘It will,’ said Cook. ‘But you know where I am, if you need me. Peas, Charlie?’
Charlie accepted a plate of macaroni cheese and peas and wandered round the tables until he found Fidelio, sitting with Billy Raven and Gabriel Silk. Gabriel’s floppy brown hair almost obscured his face, and there was a forlorn droop to his mouth.
‘What’s up, Gabe?’ asked Charlie. ‘Are your gerbils OK?’
Gabriel looked up sadly. ‘I can’t do piano this term. Mr Pilgrim’s gone.’
‘Gone?’
