‘Not going so well, then?’ Tab asked, leaning on the edge of the stage and looking up at Fontagu.

He groaned. ‘If Florian doesn’t kill me, the reviews will! It’s less than a week until opening night, and look at what I’m working with – wooden swords and a clod in a dress!’

Tab felt something on her foot, and looked down to see a small, fluffy white dog sitting on it. ‘Make yourself comfortable, won’t you?’ she said to it.

‘Oh, how cute!’ squealed Amelia, bending down to scratch the dog’s head. ‘Whose is it?’

‘I don’t rightly know,’ Fontagu said. ‘It just turned up off the street and took a shine to me. I don’t suppose you’re an agent, are you?’ he asked the dog, before groaning and shaking his head despairingly. ‘Then you could get me out of his mess.’

‘What’s the dog called?’ Tab asked.

‘I’ve named him after the dog in the play,’ Fontagu said.

‘Fargus!’ Amelia said proudly. ‘Is he going to actually be in the play?’

‘No, I don’t expect so, but I could stick him in a dress and he’d be certain to do a better job than that halfwit you were unfortunate enough to see a moment ago.’

‘How are the script changes working out?’

‘The ones that Janus made?’ Fontagu appeared less than impressed. ‘Imagine the finest thickleberry tart, with clotted cream and a drizzle of lemon whey.’

‘Mmm,’ the girls said in unison.

‘Now imagine a cockroach crawling through it.’

‘Ew,’ said Tab.

‘Uh-uh,’ said Amelia.

‘Well, the tart is my play, and that horrid insect crawling through it is the page of changes they insisted upon.’ Fontagu sighed and stood up. ‘Well, you’d best let me get on with it – see if we can’t pick around the cockroach. You can stay and watch for a while if you like. Come on, cretins one and all,’ he called. ‘Dresses on and away we go.’ Then he glanced back at the girls and rolled his eyes again.

While Fontagu and the other actors went back to their rehearsals, Tab and Amelia went exploring the New Paragon. The main part of the playhouse was a huge expanse of stone floor scattered with straw, where the audience would stand, looking up at the performers. Around the walls were stalls for those prepared to pay a little more for their tickets, while the royal box was near the side of the stage. The girls sat in the cushioned seats, putting their feet up on the side-tables and looking down their noses at the actors practising on the stage.

‘I am Florian the Gross,’ Amelia said. ‘I am better than everyone here.’

‘And I am Janus the Slightly Creepy,’ said Tab. ‘I have a friend who smells of tigerplums.’

They stayed and watched from the royal box for a while longer, but after seeing Fontagu screaming insults at his poor, bumbling cast for twenty minutes or so, Tab turned to Amelia. ‘Torby?’

‘Torby.’

Being the middle of the day, they went by the most direct route to the Grendelmire Infirmary, even though that took them straight past the lane that was believed to lead to Skulum Gate.

‘Don’t even look down there,’ Tab said to Amelia as they passed.

‘I know it’s a bit creepy, but don’t you ever wonder -’

‘No. No, I don’t. If we’d been just a little more experienced, it would have been us, Amelia. We should have been grateful that we were still learning.’

‘So why wasn’t Stelka sent there?’

‘Can you imagine the outcry? No, they needed a reason that people could agree with, so they made up that ridiculous charge and threw her in jail. Come on, don’t slow down,’ she said, grabbing Amelia’s arm and dragging her away from the laneway with the dead end and the cold air.

The Grendelmire Infirmary was three storeys high, with an imposing facade and rows of small, unfriendly looking, barred windows.

‘It’s sad, visiting Torby here,’ Amelia said.

‘True, but I think it’s important.’

‘He doesn’t even notice that we’re here.’

‘I know.’

The room that doubled as an entry hall was empty, so they made their way straight up the stairs to the second floor, where Torby’s bed was. He’d been moved from his comfortable space some months before to make room for the dying mother of one of Florian’s favoured courtiers, and after she finally died, they’d never bothered to move Torby back. His was the last in a row of a dozen or so beds, which faced another row on the opposite side. About half the beds were occupied, mostly by very old people, and one or two who were muttering madly under their breath.

Torby lay on his left side, his eyes turned to the blank wall. Even when the girls stood at the end of his bed and spoke to him, there was no reaction from him; not even a flicker of the eyes.

‘Torby,’ said Tab, crouching down beside him and taking his hand. ‘It’s Tab and Amelia. How are you today? Can you squeeze my hand?’

There was no response. Tab looked at Amelia, and saw tears in her eyes.

‘What have they done to you, Torby?’ Amelia said.

‘It’s terrible,’ Tab said. ‘He’s getting so thin.’

‘Sorry, but I’ve got to go,’ Amelia suddenly said. Then she turned and half-ran for the door.

‘We’ll come and see you again tomorrow,’ Tab promised, giving Torby’s hand another squeeze. ‘Keep hanging on, all right? You’ll be fine.’

She headed back downstairs, and found Amelia sitting on the front steps.

‘Are you all right?’ Tab asked, sitting down beside her.

Amelia wiped her eyes with the back of her hand. ‘I hate seeing him like that. He was doing so well, then… then this.’

‘I know,’ Tab replied, tucking her friend’s hair back behind her ear. ‘It’s so strange, though. He was getting back into his magic, becoming more confident.’

‘There had to be some kind of connection between the Archon dying and Torby going backwards,’ said Amelia. ‘I bet it had something to do with Florian.’

‘You don’t know that.’

‘True, but don’t you think it would be interesting to know what happened to Torby, and whether it was linked? But of course now Torby can’t tell us.’

Tab nodded. ‘It makes me angry too. But you have to keep your temper under control, Amelia. And you can’t just say whatever comes into your head wherever you happen to be. Even if Florian…’ She stopped while a visitor passed them on his way into the infirmary, then lowered her voice a little. ‘Even if Florian did make Torby that way, there’s no way to prove it.’

‘I know.’

‘So don’t let yourself get so worked up about it.’

‘You’re right. And what is that disgusting smell?’

‘I don’t know. I didn’t smell it. Oh yes, there it is!’

‘That’s the smell of tigerplums!’

Tab shuddered. ‘Aren’t they hideous? There must be a tree around here somewhere.’

‘They should cut them all down, if you ask me, the horrid, stinking things.’

Fontagu was anxious. It was a matter of days until the opening night of the performance. Already the preparations for Florian’s birthday celebrations were in full swing, with a large part of Tarquin’s Hill cordoned off for the erection of marquees and stalls for invited guests. The route from the palace to the hill had been inspected several times, and all homeless people, unseemly types or poor folk had been moved elsewhere. The same had been done along the route that led to the New Paragon, where Fontagu was putting the finishing touches to his play.

It was hard work, being the writer, director and star of the show. It was doubly difficult knowing that a dud performance could end up with him… Well, he didn’t like to even contemplate the possibilities – the very thought made him break out in hives. And a leading man with hives would never do.

The changes that Janus had insisted on had been challenging. At first glance, they appeared to be no more than a line here and a word or two there. But then came the big change – a part specially written for Florian himself.