'And it's much more fun,' he whispered.

     Susan felt his grip lessen. There was a wet thump like a piece of steak hitting a slab and Teatime went past her, on his back.

     'No pullin' girls' hair,' rumbled Banjo. 'That's bad.'

     Teatime bounced, up like an acrobat and steadied himself on the railing of the stairwell.

     Then he drew the sword.

     The blade was invisible in the bright light of the tower.

     'It's true what the stories say, then,' he said. 'So thin you can't see it. I'm going to have such fun with it.' He waved it at them. 'So light.'

     'You wouldn't dare use it. My  grandfather  will come after you,'  said Susan, walking towards him.

     She saw one eye twitch.

     'He comes after everyone. But I'll be ready for him,' said Teatime.

     'He's very single-minded,' said Susan, closer now.

     'Ah, a man after my own heart.'

     'Could be, Mister Teatime.'

     He brought the sword around. She didn't even have time to duck.

     And she didn't even try to when he swung the sword back again.

     'It doesn't work here,' she said, as he stared at it in  astonishment.  'The blade doesn't  exist here. There's no  Death here!'

     She slapped him across the face.

     'Hi!' she said brightly. 'I'm the inner babysitter!'

     She didn't punch. She just thrust  out an arm, palm first, catching him under the chin and lifting him backwards over the rail.

     He  somersaulted.  She  never knew how.  He  somehow  managed  to  gain purchase on clear air.

     His free arm grabbed at hers, her feet came off the ground, and she was over  the  rail.  She  caught it with her  other hand -  although later  she wondered if the rail hadn't managed to catch her instead.

     Teatime  swung  from  her  arm,  staring  upwards   with  a  thoughtful expression. She saw him grip the sword  hilt in his teeth and reach down  to his belt

     The question 'Is this person  mad enough to try to kill someone holding him?' was asked  and answered very, very fast... She kicked down and hit him on the ear.

     The  cloth  of her sleeve  began to tear. Teatime  tried to get another grip.  She  kicked again  and the dress ripped. For an instant he held on to nothing and then, still wearing the  expression of someone trying to solve a complex problem, he fell away, spinning, getting smaller...

     He hit the pile of teeth, sending  them splashing across the marble. He jerked for a moment...

     And vanished.

     A hand like a bunch of bananas pulled Susan back over the rail.

     'You can get into trouble, hittin' girls,' said Banjo. 'No playin' with girls.'

     There was a click behind them.

     The doors had swung open. Cold white mist rolled out across the floor.

     'Our mam---' said Banjo, trying to work things out. 'Our mam was here...'

     'Yes,' said Susan.

     'But it weren't our mam, 'cos they buried our mam...'

     'Yes.'

     'We watched 'em fill in the grave and everything.'

     'Yes,' said Susan, and added to herself, I bet you did.

     'And where's our Davey gone?'

     'Er... somewhere else, Banjo.'

     'Somewhere nice?' said the huge man hesitantly.

     Susan  grasped with  relief  the opportunity to tell  the  truth, or at least not definitely lie.

     'It could be,' she said.

     'Better'n here?'

     'You never know. Some people would say the odds are in favour.'

     Banjo   turned   his  pink  piggy  eyes   on  her.  For   a  moment   a thirty-five-year-old   man   looked  out  through  the  pink  clouds   of  a five-year-old face.

     'That's good,' he said. 'He'll be able to see our mam again.'

     This much conversation seemed to exhaust him. He sagged.

     'I wanna go home,' he said.

     She  stared at  his big, stained face, shrugged  hopelessly,  pulled  a handkerchief out of her pocket and held it up to his mouth.

     'Spit,' she commanded. He obeyed.

     She  dabbed the  handkerchief over the  worst  parts and then tucked it into his hand.

     'Have a good  blow,'  she suggested,  and then carefully  leaned out of range until the echoes of the blast had died away.

     'You can keep the hanky. Please,' she added, meaning it wholeheartedly.

'Now tuck your shirt in.'

     'Yes, miss.'

     'Now, go downstairs and sweep all the teeth out  of the circle. Can you do that?'

     Banjo nodded.

     'What can you do?' Susan prompted.

     Banjo concentrated. 'Sweep all the teeth out of the circle, miss.'

     'Good. Off you go.'

     Susan watched  him plod  off, and then looked at the white doorway. She was sure the wizard had only got as far as the sixth lock.

     The room beyond the door was entirely white, and the mist  that swirled at knee level deadened even the sound of her footsteps.

     All there was was a bed. It was a large fourposter, old and dusty.

     She thought it was unoccupied and then she saw the figure, lying among the mounds of pillows. It  looked very much like a frail old lady in a mob cap.

     The old woman turned her head and smiled at Susan.

     'Hello, my dear.'

     Susan  couldn't remember  a  grandmother. Her  father's mother had died when she was young and the other side of the family... well, she'd never had a grandmother. But this was the sort she'd have wanted.

     The kind, the nasty realistic  side of her mind said, that hardly  ever existed.

     Susan  thought  she heard  a  child laugh.  And another  one. Somewhere almost  out  of  hearing, children were at play. It  was  always a pleasant, lulling sound.

     Always provided, of course, you couldn't hear the actual words.

     'No,' said Susan.

     'Sorry, dear?' said the old lady.

     'You're not the Tooth Fairy.' Oh, no... there was even a damn patchwork quilt...

     'Oh, I am, dear.'

     'Oh, Grandma, what big teeth you have... Good grief, you've  even got a shawl, oh dear.'

     'I don't understand, lovey...'

     'You forgot the rocking chair,' said  Susan. 'I always  thought there'd be a rocking chair...'

     There was a pop behind  her, and then  a  dying creakcreak. She  didn't even turn round.

     'If you've included a kitten playing with a ball of wool it'll go  very hard with you,' she said  sternly, and picked up the candlestick by the bed. It seemed heavy enough.

     'I  don't think you're real,' she  said  levelly. 'There's not a little old woman  in a shawl running this place. You're out of my head.  That's how you defend yourself... You poke around in people's heads and find the things that work...'

     She swung the candlestick. It passed through the figure in the bed.

     'See?' she said. 'You're not even real.'

     'Oh, I am real, dear,' said the old woman, as her outline changed. 'The candlestick wasn't.'

     Susan looked down at the new shape.

     'Nope,' she said. 'It's horrible,  but it doesn't frighten  me. No, nor does that.'  It  changed  again,  and again. 'No,  nor  does my father. Good grief, you're scraping the bottom of the barrel, aren't you? I like spiders. Snakes don't  worry me.  Dogs?  No. Rats are fine,  I  like  rats. Sorry, is anyone frightened of that?'

     She grabbed at the thing and this time the shape stayed. It looked like a small,  wizened  monkey, but with  big deep eyes  under a brow overhanging like  a balcony.  Its  hair was grey and  lank. It struggled  weakly  in her grasp, and wheezed.

     'I  don't  frighten easily,'  said Susan,  'but you'd be amazed at  how angry I can become.'

     The creature hung limp.