There was a muffled clunk as the key was pushed out, as it dropped from the lock onto the newspaper. Bod pulled the paper back under the door, now with the key sitting on it.
Liza laughed, delighted. “That’s wit, young man,” she said. “That’s wisdom.”
Bod put the key in the lock, turned it, and pushed open the storeroom door.
There were two men on the floor, in the middle of the crowded antiques shop. Furniture had indeed fallen; the place was a chaos of wrecked clocks and chairs, and in the midst of it the bulk of Tom Hustings lay, fallen on the smaller figure of Abanazer Bolger. Neither of them was moving.
“Are they dead?” asked Bod.
“No such luck,” said Liza.
On the floor beside the men was a brooch of glittering silver; a crimson-orange-banded stone, held in place with claws and with snake-heads, and the expression on the snake-heads was one of triumph and avarice and satisfaction.
Bod dropped the brooch into his pocket, where it sat beside the heavy glass paperweight, the paintbrush, and the little pot of paint.
“Take this too,” said Liza.
Bod looked at the black-edged card with the word Jack handwritten on one side. It disturbed him. There was something familiar about it, something that stirred old memories, something dangerous. “I don’t want it.”
“You can’t leave it here with them,” said Liza. “They were going to use it to hurt you.”
“I don’t want it,” said Bod. “It’s bad. Burn it.”
“No!” Liza gasped. “Don’t do that. You mustn’t do that.”
“Then I’ll give it to Silas,” said Bod. And he put the little card into an envelope so he had to touch it as little as possible, and put the envelope into the inside pocket of his old gardening jacket, beside his heart.
Two hundred miles away, the man Jack woke from his sleep, and sniffed the air. He walked downstairs.
“What is it?” asked his grandmother, stirring the contents of a big iron pot on the stove. “What’s got into you now?”
“I don’t know,” he said. “Something’s happening. Something…interesting.” And then he licked his lips. “Smells tasty,” he said. “Very tasty.”
Lightning illuminated the cobbled street.
Bod hurried through the rain through the Old Town, always heading up the hill toward the graveyard. The grey day had become an early night while he was inside the storeroom, and it came as no surprise to him when a familiar shadow swirled beneath the street lamps. Bod hesitated, and a flutter of night-black velvet resolved itself into a man-shape.
Silas stood in front of him, arms folded. He strode forward, impatiently.
“Well?” he said.
Bod said, “I’m sorry, Silas.”
“I’m disappointed in you, Bod,” Silas said, and he shook his head. “I’ve been looking for you since I woke. You have the smell of trouble all around you. And you know you’re not allowed to go out here, into the living world.”
“I know. I’m sorry.” There was rain on the boy’s face, running down like tears.
“First of all, we need to get you back to safety.” Silas reached down, and enfolded the living child inside his cloak, and Bod felt the ground fall away beneath him.
“Silas,” he said.
Silas did not answer.
“I was a bit scared,” he said. “But I knew you’d come and get me if it got too bad. And Liza was there. She helped a lot.”
“Liza?” Silas’s voice was sharp.
“The witch. From the Potter’s Field.”