She extended her arms in Harvey’s direction. He remembered all too well her transforming touch. “Come! Come!” she said. “I might still get you out of trouble, if you let me make something humble of you. He likes humble things, does Mr. Hood. Fleas; worms; scabby dogs. Come to me, child! Quickly!”

Harvey looked around the cellar. There were no other ways out. If he was to get Mrs. Griffin up into the sun it had to be by way of the stairs, and Marr was standing in front of them.

He took a step in her direction. She smiled toothlessly.

“Good, child, good,” she said.

“Don’t,” Mrs. Griffin said. “She’ll hurt you.”

“Hush, woman!” Mary said. “We’re going to have to nail that lid down next time !” Her Greasy green eyes swiveled back in Harvey’s direction. “He knows what’s good for him. Don’t you, boy?”

Harvey didn’t reply. He simply kept walking toward Marr, whose fingers seemed to be growing like a snail’s horns, reaching out to fix upon his face.

“You’ve been such an obedient boy,” Marr went on. “Maybe I won’t turn you into a worm after all. What would you like to be? Tell me. tell me what’s in your heart…”

“Never mind my heart,” Harvey said, reaching out toward Marr. “What about yours?”

A puzzled look came over Marr’s face. “Mine?” she said.

“Yes,” said Harvey. “What do you dream of being?”

“I never dream,” she said defiantly.

“You should try it,” Harvey told her. “If you can change me into a worm, or a bat, what could you do for yourself?”

The defiance on her face became bafflement, and the bafflement turned to panic. Her outstretched fingers began to retreat into themselves. Harvey reached for them like lightning, however, interweaving his fingers with hers.

“What do you want to be?” he said to her. “Think!”

She started to struggle, and he felt her magic surging through her fingers into his, attempting to work some change on him. But he didn’t want to be a vampire bat anymore, and he certainly didn’t want to be a worm. He was quite happy to be himself. The magic therefore had no hold on him; instead it flowed back into Marr, who began to shake as though she were being dipped in icy water.

“What…are…you…doing?” she demanded.

“Tell me what’s in your heart,” he said, returning her invitation.

“I’m not telling you!” she replied, still trying to wrest her fingers free of his.

But she was not used to having her victims resist her this way. Her muscles were soft and flabby. She pulled and pulled, but she couldn’t escape him.

“Leave me alone!” she said. “If you harm me Mr. Hood will have your head.”

“I’m not harming you,” Harvey replied. “I’m just letting you have your dreams, the way you let me have mine.”

“I don’t want them!” she yelled, struggling more than ever.

He wouldn’t let her go. Instead, he drew closer to her, as if to wrap her up in his arms. She started to spit at him—great gobs of slime—but he wiped them from his face and kept approaching her.

“No…” she began to murmur, “…no…”

But she couldn’t keep the magic she’d intended for him from working on her own skin and bones. Her fat face began to soften and run like melting wax; her body sagged in its ragged coat, and a greenish gruel began to pour out onto the floor.

“Oh…” she sobbed, “…you damnable child…”

What dream was this, Harvey wondered, that was turning Marr to mush? She was growing smaller all the time, her clothes dropping off her as her body shrank, her voice becoming thin. It could only be moments before she disappeared altogether.

“What do you dream about?” Harvey said, as Marrs fingers ran away between his own like brackish water.

“I dream of nothing…” Marr replied, her eyes sinking back into her disintegrating skull, “…and that’s…what…I’ve…become…” She was almost lost in the folds of her clothes…nothing…” she said again. She was no more than a dirty puddle now; a puddle with a fading voice. “…nothing…”

Then she was gone, devoured by her own magic.

“You did it!” Mrs. Griffin said. “Child, you did it!”

“One down, three to go,” Harvey said.

“Three?”

“Rictus, Jive and Hood himself.”

“You’re forgetting Carna.”

“Is it still alive?”

Mrs. Griffin nodded. “I’m afraid I’ve heard its shrieks every night. It wants revenge.”

“And I want my life back,” Harvey said, taking her by the arm and escorting her (still carrying Stew-Cat) to the bottom of the stairs. “I’m going to get it, Mrs. Griffin. Whatever it takes, I’m going to get it.”

Mrs. Griffin glanced back at the heap of clothes that marked the place where Marr had vanished into thin air.

“Maybe you can” she said, with astonishment in her voice. “Of all the children who’ve come here, maybe you’re the one who can beat Hood at his own game.”

Rictus was waiting at the top of the stairs. His smile was sweet. His words were not.

“You’re a murderer now, my little man,” he said. “Do you like the feel of Marr’s blood on your hands?”

“He didn’t kill her,” Mrs. Griffin said. “She was never alive. None of you are.”

“What are we then?” Rictus asked.

“Illusions,” Harvey replied, ushering Mrs. Griffin and her cat past Rictus to the front door. “It’s all illusions.”

Rictus followed them, giggling insanely.

“What’s so funny?” Harvey said, opening the door to let Mrs. Griffin out into the sun.

“You are!” Rictus replied. “You think you know everything, but you don’t know Mr. Hood.”

“I will in a little while,” said Harvey. “Go and get warm,” he told Mrs. Griffin. “I’ll be back.”

“Be careful, child,” she said.

“I will,” he told her, then closed the door.

“You’re a strange one,” Rictus said, his smile failing a little. His face, when his teeth no longer dazzled, was like a mask made of dough. Two thumb-holes for eyes, and a blob for a nose.

“I could suck out your brains through your ears,” he said, all the music gone from his voice.

“Maybe you could,” said Harvey. “But you’re not going to.”

“How do you know?”

“Because I’ve got an appointment with your master.”

He started toward the bottom of the stairs, but before he reached it a dark figure flitted in front of him. It was Jive, and he was carrying a plate of apple pie and ice cream.

“It’s a long climb,” he said. “Put something in your stomach first.”

Harvey looked down at the plate. The pie was golden brown and dusted with sugar, the ice cream melting in a sweet, white pool! It Certainly looked tempting.

“Go on,” said Jive. “You deserve a treat.”

“No thanks,” Harvey told him.

“Why not?” Jive wanted to know, turning full circle on his heel. “It’s lighter than I am.”

“But I know what it’s made of,” Harvey said.

“Apples and cinnamon and—”

“No,” said Harvey. “I know what it’s really made of.”

He looked back at the pie, and for a moment it seemed he glimpsed the truth of the thing: the gray dust and ashes from which this illusion was made.

“You think it’s poisoned?” Jive said. “Is that it?”

“Maybe,” Harvey replied, still staring at the pie.

“Well, it’s not!” Jive said. “And I’ll prove it!” Harvey heard Rictus make a warning sound behind him, but Jive didn’t catch it. He plunged his fingers into the pie and ice cream and delivered them to his mouth in one swift motion. As he closed his mouth Rictus said: “Don’t swallow it!”

Again, too late. The food went down in one gulp. An instant later, Jive dropped the plate and began to slam his fists against his stomach, as if to force the food up again. But instead of half-chewed pie, a cloud of dust issued from between his teeth. Then another; then another.