Page 49 of The Neverfear

‘What now?’

‘Jacques flies it over the serpenting, and drops it over its head. Serpents hates to have theirs eyes covered; it confustulates them. And while it is strugglings, you steals in and ties it up with the ropes.’

There was a pause. ‘Capture by archaic underwear?’ said Christopher. ‘It’s not really a classic move, is it?’

‘Does you haves a more smoothly plan?’

‘No,’ said Christopher.

‘Then, Jacques – go!’

Jacques seized the petticoat in his claws and flew over the wall.

‘Now!’ he cried.

Christopher and Anya burst into the garden. Ahead of them was a lashing, hissing ball of cloth. Christopher sent up thanks for the thickness of the rope as he flung a loop around the writhing mass, lassoing it round and round until they had a bundle that was half rope and half cloth.

Finally he drew breath. ‘I don’t know how long that will hold,’ he said. ‘We’ll need to be quick. Where’s the golden apple?’

For the first time, Christopher looked around. It was an orchard of hundreds of trees, and each tree was rich with apples, green and yellow and deep russet red.

‘That’s a lot of apples,’ said Anya.

‘Well observed,’ said Jacques. ‘It is every apple species in Glimouria.’

‘How are we supposed to know which is which?’ Christopher said.

‘The golden apple of the Hesperides looks like fruit,’ said Jacques. ‘All dragons know that. Until you taste it; then it turns to solid metal.’

‘Then we’ll have to taste them all,’ said Christopher. ‘And fast.’

Apples To Apples, Dust To Dust

Christopher ran towards the nearest tree, keeping one eye on the bundle of snake. He plucked a dark green apple. He bit deep. It tasted, disappointingly, of apple: sharp and sweet.

‘It’s fine,’ he said, ‘but it’s not golden.’

At least, that was what he meant to say. In fact he said nothing, because as he opened his mouth, a cascade of bubbles, each perfect and translucent, poured out.

Anya snorted with laughter. ‘A spheril tree!’

He spat out the apple. ‘A what?’

‘We couldn’t grow them in Dousha, because the soil’s wrong. If you catch the bubbles in a jar, they’ve got rare properties – I forget what. Something medical.’

Anya ran to the next tree and sank her teeth into a small yellow apple. Instantly she yelped, her hair standing on end.

‘The electricitree,’ said Ratwin. ‘Apologisations, Anya! I’ve seen one of those long agoes in the west: I should have warneds you.’

The next apple was deep red. It tasted of chocolate cake, a taste that morphed on Christopher’s tongue, even as he recognised it, to strawberry bootlaces and then to something spectacular and new – like a cherry, but sweeter and more vivid.

‘It’s called an Appsolutus. It tastes of your favourite thing, even if it’s something that you’ve never tasted and only imagined,’ said Anya, reaching for one too.

Jacques snorted, and smoke puffed around his head. ‘I would remind you,’ he said, ‘that you have no time to waste.’ He flew to land on the closest tree, bit an apple and vanished. In his place was a transparent blur. He choked, and swallowed, and reappeared. ‘An Anonomia! No thank you! A creature of my beauty should not be invisible!’

Anya darted along the row to pluck another. She shuddered. ‘Ugh. It’s sour.’

Christopher stared at her. Her hair seemed to be moving of its own accord. ‘Anya! Your hair!’ he said. ‘It’s growing!’