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trembling with rage.
    “I want an answer by noon tomorrow!” cried Osmund. “I shall send my castellan to hear it as soon as the sun stands above that ridiculously wonky castle tower of yours.”
    “You can have your answer now, you puffed-up toad!” Igraine shouted down. “You —”
    But she got no further. Albert grabbed her from behind, put his hand over her mouth, and pulled her down from the wall. “Are you crazy?” he hissed in her ear. “Have you forgotten that our parents can’t work magic at the moment? And it isn’t as easy as you think to turn them all into wood lice! We have to play for time. Only that can save us!”
    He let go of Igraine and climbed up on the battlements himself. His magic coat fluttered around his tall, thin figure, and the mice hid in his sleeves.
    “Forgive my little sister, noble Osmund!” cried Albert, bowing low. “She’s only just twelve, and she’s heard minstrels tell too many tales of chivalry. I am Albert of Pimpernel, eldest son of noble Sir Lamorak and the Fair Melisande. I will inform my parents of your generous offer as soon as they get back from their journey. But we’re not expecting them for another two weeks. So I must ask you not to expect an answer any sooner than that.”
    Igraine could almost have bitten off her tongue with fury when she heard her brother talk like that. But Albert was right. They needed time — time to go and get the giant’s hairs. Time to turn their parents back into human form. Otherwise they were finished.
    “Oh, I could bite my curly tail with rage!” grunted her father beside her. “Why does that fellow have to show up just now? I’d turn him straight into a slug if I weren’t stuck in this stupid itchy pigskin, I’d turn him into a stinkhorn, I’d turn him into the backside of an ape….”
    “Shhh!” hissed the Fair Melisande, listening with bated breath for an answer from below.
    None came for an agonizingly long time. Then they heard Osmund’s voice again. “Oho! So your parents have gone away, have they? For two weeks. Leaving their children all alone in a crumbling castle like this for two whole weeks?” Some of his men laughed. “Hmm. All alone with their lovely Books of Magic. Well, well. Two weeks, that’s really quite a while. But I’ll wait for the answer, my boy. After all, I’m a man of honor, aren’t I?”
    Igraine clenched her fists with fury. But Osmund smiled mockingly at his castellan.
    The Spiky Knight raised his lance, and Osmund’s men turned their horses and rode away with their master. Only the Spiky Knight lingered by the castle moat for another moment, motionless. He looked up at the walls, examined the gargoyles, the drawbridge, and the leaning tower that rose above the battlements. Then he bent forward, spat into the moat where the water snakes were writhing, swung his horse around, and galloped away.

8

     
    “N ow what? You can bet Osmund won’t wait two weeks to come back,” said Albert.
    He and Igraine were sitting side by side on the carpet in the magic workshop. The Singing Books were sitting on their shelves, looking depressed, and Sir Lamorak and the Fair Melisande were trotting restlessly about among their items of magic equipment.
    “No, he certainly won’t,” sighed Melisande. “In fact, he’ll be back very soon, because he thinks it’s going to be easy for him.”
    “And he’s probably right,” said Albert gloomily. “Perhaps we ought to take the books and all hide in the Whispering Woods, before he throws me and Igraine into Darkrock’s dungeon and turns you two into roast pork.”
    “No, no, we most definitely ought not!” cried Sir Lamorak, stamping his trotter. “We’re not done for yet. You’re already a good magician, Albert, and the books can help you.”
    A worried muttering was heard up on the shelves.
    “But he’s only passed Grade Three of the magic exams!” said one of the fatter books.
    “That’s right!” agreed a very slim volume.