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England thinks she’s a miller’s wife and now bakes all the bread in Buckingham Palace?”
    “Nothing would surprise me any more. OK, let’s go out there and do our job.”
    The sun was finally attempting to break through the cheerless clouds and the spring flowers threw out their deepest colours. Four horses, arrayed in the pageantry of Mooncaster’s Royal Houses, were standing patiently by one of the cabins. A group of mummers were rehearsing and the narrow road outside the compound was already lined with cars and vans. Musicians and brightly dressed folk in the best replicas of Mooncaster apparel had arrived to make this an extra special celebration.
    Here and there, in the gathering crowd, snatches of song could be heard and toes were pointed as steps of courtly dances were practised and instruments were plucked, or strummed or blown into. One of the horses leaned forward and grazed idly on the cascading blooms of a hanging basket.
    With this in the background, Kate recorded an introductory segment to camera, explaining the farcical pantomime that was being put on today for the world to witness.
    It was another forty minutes before the first cheerfully painted coach came lumbering up the forest road. The Ismus and his tame press crews stepped forward to welcome the weekend’s special guests.
    “Here they are!” he declared, holding his arms wide. “Our lost and lonely lambs. What a time they shall have; what pleasures and adventures lie in store for them.”
    Pulling Sam through the crowd, Kate Kryzewski ploughed her way to the front and directed his lens up at the coach’s windows as it slowed to a stop.
    Dozens of young faces were pressed against the glass.
    “Oh my God,” she whispered. “Those poor kids. They look shell-shocked.”
    No one would have believed the children in the coach were coming for a “glorious” weekend. Their little faces were sombre and still and a measure of fear dimmed every eye. Some had been crying. The adults who sat beside them had not bothered to wipe those tears away. Kate scanned along the wide windows. There was a mix of ages. Some appeared as young as seven but, here and there, were sullen teenagers who refused to look out and were staring morosely at the headrest immediately in front of them. Only the adults in the coach seemed excited to be here. They were all grinning and pointing and waving and laughing.
    The door of the coach slid open.
    At once the musicians struck up a joyous tune and the carollers sang a Maying song from the book.
    “Welcome!” the Ismus called. “Welcome, one and all!”
    The parents of the children rushed out, keen to breathe the same rarefied air as the Holy Enchanter and see the Jacks and Jills who were now seated upon the horses and were saluting and nodding in greeting.
    Kate hadn’t even tried to interview any of those four. They were too deeply immersed in this madness to shed any light on it. They were living puppets, enslaved to the wishes of the Ismus, and had almost forgotten their original identities completely.
    But at that moment she wasn’t thinking of them. She urgently wanted to speak to these stunned-looking kids. Impatient, she waited for the adults to leave the vehicle and, when no child came following, she jumped on to the coach, dragging Sam with her.
    Right away her nostrils were assaulted by the rank stink of that foul plant and she saw that the seats and floor were strewn with stalks and well-chewed fibrous lumps. She knew the slimy debris was down to the adults. Minchet didn’t work on these kids. That was why they were here.
    Seventeen children were still sitting in their allocated seats, dotted evenly down the length of the coach. The younger ones stared up at her, confused and unsure, cuddly toys clenched in desperate headlocks.
    It had been a long journey. They had been collected from across the southern counties and hadn’t been allowed to sit together or talk to one another for the entire trip. Kate doubted