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Pleeeease.”
    Unsurprisingly, nothing happened.
    “Oh, it’s no use! I have no idea what I should even be saying!”
    No sooner were the words out of his mouth when Wesley’s whole body stiffened. Hisarms swept upwards in an arc above his head, leaving a blueish-green trail shimmering in their wake.
    He didn’t speak. There was no need. With a flourish of his fingers, the world around them changed.
    There was a crash , a crunch and a series of “ oofs ” and then, with three thuds and one final big smash , they hit the ground.

Chapter Eight
    Ben was woken by a stick poking him in the face. Groaning, he prised open his eyelids and looked up, only to see something short and skinny looking back down.
    At first he thought it was Paradise in her green robe, but he quickly realised that this wasn’t the case. The figure was a little shorterthan Paradise for one thing, and it wasn’t his clothing that was green. It was his skin.
    Ben nudged the walking stick away from his face and sat up. This hurt. There were loads of little scratches and cuts on his hand and legs. From the way it ached to blink he guessed there were a few on his face too.
    His clothes were thick with grime and broken twigs, and he was lying on something lumpy and uncomfortable.
    “Get off,” said Paradise from beneath him.
    Ben slid sideways as Paradise wriggled into a sitting position and spotted the green-skinned figure peering at them.
    He was a strange-looking little man, with a head shaped like a sagging rugby ball and wide, bloodshot eyes that took up seventy percent of his face. There was barely room left over for his long pointy nose and his puckered little mouth that reminded Ben of an inside-out walnut. He had fluffy grey eyebrows, which wasn’t particularly unusual, but they were on his cheeks, which was.
    His clothing had been fashioned from a few old sacks, tied with a length of rope around his middle. He had stopped poking Ben with his knobbly walking stick, but the man now held it in front of him like a sword.
    “Who are you?” Paradise asked.
    “Who am I?” said the little man, his eyes darting nervously. “Good question. Good question. Here’s another. Who are you? Hmm? And why did you fall through my roof?”
    Ben and Paradise both looked up. Sureenough, there was a large hole in the thatched roof above their heads. Wesley dangled upside down from it, his robe snagged on a piece of broken wood.

    “Hello there,” Wesley said, then he fell in a heap to the floor. He bounded back to his feet and smoothed his crumpled robe with both hands. “I’m up, I’m fine. I’m fine. Meant that.” He spotted the little green man. “Oh. A goblin.”
    “Where?” said the little man. “Oh, me. Yes. A goblin I am. Not just any goblin. No, sir. A Luck Goblin. Very rare.”
    “A Luck Goblin?” said Ben. He hadn’t read about those in Lunt Bingwood’s book either.
    “What kind of Luck Goblin?” Wesley asked. “Bad luck or good luck?”
    The goblin glanced around the ruined remains of his house, lingering for a moment on the small dragon that had crash-landed on what looked as if it had once been his kitchen table.

    “Guess,” he said and then, with a ping , his trousers fell down. He hurriedly pulled them back up. “Sorry, that happens occasionally. Well, regularly. Well … six times a day.”
    The dragon let out a happy-sounding little yip and wagged her tail as Paradise approached her. She looked like a big, weird-shaped dog. With wings.
    “I think she’s OK,” Paradise said. The dragon licked her cheek, pasting slobber all over her face. “Yes, definitely fine,” Paradise spluttered.
    Ben looked at the damage around them. It had probably been quite a nice little house until a few minutes ago. The walls were made of mossy stone, and the furniture – what was left of it – looked quite rough and rustic, but it was pleasant in its own way.
    “Mr Nuttendudge,” said the goblin.
    Ben and Wesley exchanged a glance.