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them, but working in the polish with a will – and as he worked, he whistled; they could just hear him through the open slit at the top of the window.
    And the rescuers turned to each other and smiled, for they could see that the Prince had been taught to work; that he wasn’t being brought up spoilt and selfish as they had feared. Something about the way the ghosts had spoken about Raymond Trottle had worried them, but the boy’s alert face, the willing way in which he polished other people’s shoes, was a sign of the best possible breeding. This was a prince who would know how to serve others, as did his parents.
    The boy finished the shoes and carried them out. A second light went on and they saw him enter a scullery , fi ll a kettle and lay out some cups and saucers on a tray. This job too he did neatly and nimbly, a nd Odge sighed for it was amazing how right she had been about the Prince; he was just the kind of person she wanted for a friend, and she held on even tighter to the suitcase, glad that she had brought him the best present that any boy could have.
    The scullery light went off and a light appeared between the crack in a pair of curtains which the boy now drew back. As he did this, they could see his face turned towards them: the straight, light hair lapping the level brows, the wide-set eyes and the pointed chin. Then he made his way to the bed and set the tray down beside a fierce-looking lady who didn’t seem to be thanking him at all, but just grabbed her cup.
    ‘That must be Mrs Trottle,’ whispered Gurkin-trude. ‘She doesn’t look very loving.’
    The boy’s tasks were still not done. Back in the scullery , he took out a mop and a bucket and began to wipe the floor. Was he perhaps working a little too hard for a child who had not yet had breakfast? Or was he on a training scheme? Knights often lived like this before a joust or a tournament – and boy scouts too.
    But nothing mattered except that the Prince was everything a boy should be and that the day they brought him back to his rightful home would be the most joyful one the Island had ever known.
    ‘Can’t we go and tell him we’re here?’ asked Odge.
    There was no need. The boy had come out of the back door carrying a polythene bag full of rubbish which he put in the dustbin. Then he lifted his head and saw them. For a moment he stood perfectly still with a look of wonder on his face and it was almost as though he was listening to some distant, remembered music. Then he ran lightly up the basement steps and threw open the gate.
    ‘Can I help you?’ he asked. ‘Is there anyone you want to see?’
    Cor the Wise stepped forward. He wanted to greet the Prince by his true name, to bow his head before him, but he knew he must not startle him, and trying to speak in an ordinary voice (though he was very much moved) he said: ‘Yes, there is someone we want to see. You.’
    The boy drew in his breath. He looked at Gurkie’s round, kind face, at the grassy patch on the wizard’s head, at Odge who had turned shy and was scuffing her shoes. Then he sighed, as though a weight had fallen from him, and said: ‘You mean it? It’s really me you’ve come to see?’
    ‘Indeed it is, my dear,’ said Gurkintrude and put her arm round him. He was too thin and why hadn’t Mrs Trottle cut his hair? It was bothering him, flopping over his eyes.
    The boy’s next words surprised them. ‘I wish I could ask you in, but I’m not allowed to have visitors,’ he said – and they could see how much he minded not being able to invite them to his house. ‘But there’s a bench there under the oak tree where you could rest, and I could get you a drink. No one’s up yet, they wouldn’t notice.’
    ‘We need nothing,’ said Cor. ‘But let us be seated. We have much to tell you.’
    They made their way back into the park and the boy took out his handkerchief and wiped the wooden slats of the seat clear of leaves. It was as though he was inviting them