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the orphanage, had gotten up at the crack of dawn with the firm intention of finding her. After cheering himself up by canceling breakfast for every orphan in the orphanage, he had whistled for the dogs and set off once more for Wadingburn Hill. There he found Truda Hangnail, who had spent what remained of the night practicing her spells and concocting nasty-looking potions in the cauldron. She was feeling much better; she had perfected the art of shrinking and growing to the point where she could reduce herself to the size of a rat with the snap of a finger, and she had almost managed to convince herself that the shrinking of the Wadingburn witches was all her own work. Several bald wood pigeons, a squirrel with two tails, and a collection of poisonous biting beetles demonstrated that she had not lost her Deep Magic touch. She was not pleased to see Buckleup; she had decided that although he was wicked and cruel, he was also dull.
    “What do you want?” she asked him.
    Buckleup didn’t answer. He was holding an old and well-worn sock out to the dogs. “Find Loobly!” he commanded. The dogs began to circle the clearing, sniffing as they went.
    Truda watched them sourly. “Are you looking for the witches?”
    Buckleup shook his head. “Told you. A norphan. Loobly Higgins. Spindly little thing. She was here for certain; Snarler was hot on her trail last night. She went with the witches to Cauldron Fest, but she never came back.”
    Truda’s voice suddenly sharpened. “I don’t suppose she had anything to do with that one calling herself the Grand High Witch? Evangeline Droop? She called to someone, and I’d say that someone could have been hiding in those bushes. Malice”— she indicated the drooping furry creature hanging around her neck —“heard a sneeze.”
    Hearing his name, Malice yawned, stretched, and raised his head to whisper in her ear.
    “What?” Truda’s eyebrows rose. “She said
what
?”
    Malice whispered again, and Buckleup leaned forward to try to catch what he was saying.
    “The crones — what’s that? What’s he talking about? What’s that about the crones?”
    Truda was looking thoughtful and also angry. “Her. Evangeline. Malice”— she gave the animal a vicious slap —“Malice says she was telling your Loobly to find the Ancient Crones . . . so I’d say that’s where she’s gone. And what I’d like to know is why he didn’t think to mention it before!”
    Buckleup stared at Malice, and Malice leered back.
    “The crones, eh?” Buckleup stroked his chin. “They’re a funny lot. Best not messed with, by all accounts.”
    “Rubbish!” Truda snapped. “You’ve got dogs, haven’t you? From what my granddaughter tells me, those crones live right on the other side of the Five Kingdoms. She can’t fly, can she, this Loobly? You’d catch her long before she got to Gorebreath.”
    Buckleup Brandersby, unaware that Truda had her own reasons for wanting Loobly caught but sensing her urgency, brightened. “You’re right, missus. I’ll be on my way.” He gave Truda an evil wink. “And I’ll make sure she never thinks to run away again once I’ve got her safely back in that there washhouse. Don’t you go worrying yourself about that!” And he called to his dogs and set off briskly.
    As Truda watched him go, she considered what she’d discovered. An orphan named Loobly Higgins had been hiding when she had cast her Deep Magic. There had been the smell of Trueheart in the air at the time . . . so surely it was only reasonable to assume that the orphan was a Trueheart and therefore responsible for the alteration of the spells. Truda sucked angrily at a tooth. Her power over the witches had been seriously undermined, and she was now obliged to rule them by fear; only Mrs. Cringe could be entirely trusted. If Truda was to succeed in her plan to become Queen of Wadingburn, there was no doubt that the Trueheart orphan must be kept well out of her way.
    “Once she’s