

Praise for Skulkmoor
‘I am a huge fan of Hana’s writing, and Skulkmoor certainly did NOT disappoint – if anything, I think it might be her best book yet! Clever plotting, a lovably eccentric cast and such a richly atmospheric setting. Pacy, exciting, mysterious, adventurous –it’s a deliciously dark adventure that sparkles with wit and wonder. An absolute page-turner that children will love, and simply packed with Hana Tooke’s trademark quirkiness, warmth and originality. I was charmed and captivated from gruesome beginning to ghastly end.’
‘A high-speed, witty, absurd and joyful adventure.’
KATHERINE RUNDELL, author of Rooftoppers
‘A compelling, gorgeously written story about the power of friendship and the true meaning of family. It’s a mystery with a hint of magic, featuring characters who feel entirely real . . . perfection!’
SOPHIE KIRTLEY, author of The Wild Way Home
ROBIN STEVENS , bestselling author of Murder Most Unladylike
‘What a read! A raven-circled manor skulking with secrets and two deliciously anarchic heroes uncovering the murder mystery buried within its walls. Darkly gothic and magnificently weird – no one tells a story like Hana Tooke!’
‘A corker of a story. I loved the writing, the setting, the STUPENDOUS action scenes, how well-paced it was, with such drama, revelations, plot twists and the loveliest of final lines . . . and one of the most satisfying endings I’ve read in a long while, with the promise of more in the epilogue. Bravo, Hana – what a book!’
NIZRANA FAROOK , authorof The Girl Who Stole an Elephant
‘Deliciously dark, with wit as sharp as a raven’s beak, this strange and wonderful story comes wrapped up in a murder mystery that readers will be racing to unravel!’
EMMA CARROLL, author of Letters to the Lighthouse
STRUAN MURRAY, author of Dragonborn
‘A thrillingly twisty mystery packed with gothic atmosphere, a rogues’ gallery of delightfully eccentric characters and absolutely brimming with Hana’s exceptional blend of witty description and heartfelt emotional depth. I loved it!’
TAMZIN MERCHANT, author of The Hatmakers
‘I adored this story from the very first page. Sleek as Amsterdam velvet and full of heart-clutching mysteries, moonlit escapes on frozen canals, puppets with heartbeats and secret messages engraved upon pocket watches. Follow Milou and her adopted family on a glorious adventure as they race through the streets of Amsterdam, determined to fight for their freedom with spectacular wit, dazzling theatrical wonder and huge amount of hope, courage and everlasting friendship. A book to absolutely fall in love with.’
CERRIE BURNELL, author of The Girl with the Shark’s Teeth
Praise for
‘A gothic whodunnit awash with atmosphere and a thrilling plot that grips you like the talons of a crow. Welcome to your new murderous obsession!’
ASH BOND
, authorof Peregrine Quinn and the Cosmic Realm
‘A high-speed, witty, absurd and joyful adventure.’
KATHERINE RUNDELL, author of
Rooftoppers
‘A compelling, gorgeously written story about the power of friendship and the true meaning of family. It’s a mystery with a hint of magic, featuring characters who feel entirely real . . . perfection!’
ROBIN STEVENS Murder Most Unladylike
STUPENDOUS action scenes, how well-paced it was, with such drama, revelations, plot twists and the loveliest of final lines . . . and one of the most satisfying endings I’ve read in a long while, with the promise of more in the epilogue. Bravo, Hana – what a book!’
Letters to the Lighthouse

‘I adored this story from the very first page. Sleek as Amsterdam velvet and full of heart-clutching mysteries, moonlit escapes on frozen canals, puppets with heartbeats and secret messages engraved upon pocket watches. Follow Milou and her adopted family on a glorious adventure as they race through the streets of Amsterdam, determined to fight for their freedom with spectacular wit, dazzling theatrical wonder and huge amount of hope, courage and everlasting friendship. A book to absolutely fall in love with.’
CERRIE
BURNELL, author of The Girl with the Shark’s Teeth
Praise for
Hana Tooke
‘Adventures beguilingly rich and strange beneath a series of “full-ish” moons.’
KIRKUS , starred review
‘A high-speed, witty, absurd and joyful adventure.’
KATHERINE RUNDELL, author of Rooftoppers
‘A compelling, gorgeously written story about the power of friendship and the true meaning of family. It’s a mystery with a hint of magic, featuring characters who feel entirely real . . . perfection!’
ROBIN STEVENS , bestselling author of Murder Most Unladylike
‘A corker of a story. I loved the writing, the setting, the STUPENDOUS action scenes, how well-paced it was, with such drama, revelations, plot twists and the loveliest of final lines . . . and one of the most satisfying endings I’ve read in a long while, with the promise of more in the epilogue. Bravo, Hana – what a book!’
‘The Unadoptables is a corker of a story. I loved the writing, the setting, the STUPENDOUS action scenes, how well-paced it was, with such drama, revelations, plot twists and the loveliest of final lines . . . one of the most satisfying endings I’ve read in a long while, with the promise of more in the epilogue. Bravo, Hana – what a book!’
EMMA CARROLL, author of Letters to the Lighthouse
‘I adored this story from the very first page. Sleek as Amsterdam velvet and full of heart-clutching mysteries, moonlit escapes on frozen canals, puppets with heartbeats and secret messages engraved upon pocket watches. Follow Milou and her adopted family on a glorious adventure as they race through the streets of Amsterdam, determined to fight for their freedom with spectacular wit, dazzling theatrical wonder and huge amount of hope, courage and everlasting friendship. A book to absolutely fall in love with.’
‘I adored The Unadoptables from the very first page. Sleek as Amsterdam velvet and full of heart-clutching mysteries, moonlit escapes on frozen canals, puppets with heartbeats and secret messages engraved upon pocket watches. Follow Milou and her adopted family on a glorious adventure as they race through the streets of Amsterdam, determined to fight for their freedom with spectacular wit, dazzling theatrical wonder and huge amount of hope, courage and everlasting friendship. A book to absolutely fall in love with.’
CERRIE BURNELL, author of The Girl with the Shark’s Teeth
‘Effortlessly merging the gothic and ghastly with the eccentric and absurd, Hana Tooke’s mesmerising debut sends a quintet of abandoned orphans off on a caper across nineteenth-century Amsterdam, complete with sinister supervillains, heart-in-mouth cliff-hangers and lashings of evocative period flavour.’
‘Effortlessly merging the gothic and ghastly with the eccentric and absurd, Hana Tooke’s mesmerising debut sends a quintet of abandoned orphans off on a caper across nineteenth-century Amsterdam, complete with sinister supervillains, heart-in-mouth cliff-hangers and lashings of evocative period flavour.’
The Best Children’s Books to Look Out For in 2020, Waterstones
The Best Children’s Books to Look Out For in 2020, Waterstones
‘Offbeat orphans! Sinister villains! Sort-of-creepy life-sized puppets! In her debut middle-grade book, Hana Tooke has crafted a terrific, atmospheric story . . . The Unadoptables will make you wish your own parents had loved you enough to leave you at a Dutch orphanage in the ninteenth century to join in their adventures. Great for readers of A Series of Unfortunate Events and the Serafina series.’
‘Offbeat orphans! Sinister villains! Sort-of-creepy life-sized puppets! In her debut middle-grade book, Hana Tooke has crafted a terrific, atmospheric story . . . The Unadoptables will make you wish your own parents had loved you enough to leave you at a Dutch orphanage in the ninteenth century to join in their adventures. Great for readers of A Series of Unfortunate Events and the Serafina series.’
NATHAN HALTER , Lahaska Bookshop
NATHAN HALTER , Lahaska Bookshop
‘The Unadoptables has everything: evil ship captains, lifelike puppets, a charming Dutch setting complete with windmills and canals, a ragtag group of orphans looking for a family, and a mystery at the heart of it all. Perfect for reading out loud, and just the right amount of scary, this has the feel of a classic in the making.’
‘The Unadoptables has everything: evil ship captains, lifelike puppets, a charming Dutch setting complete with windmills and canals, a ragtag group of orphans looking for a family, and a mystery at the heart of it all. Perfect for reading out loud, and just the right amount of scary, this has the feel of a classic in the making.’
BETHANY STROUT, Tattered Cover Bookstore
BETHANY STROUT, Tattered Cover Bookstore
‘The world building in The Unadoptables was absolutely unforgettable. This book has everything you need: villians, action, comedy and adventure all rolled into one. Perfect for fans of Nevermoor and The Hero’s Guide to Saving Your Kingdom.’
‘The world building in The Unadoptables was absolutely unforgettable. This book has everything you need: villians, action, comedy and adventure all rolled into one. Perfect for fans of Nevermoor and The Hero’s Guide to Saving Your Kingdom.’
ROBYN BRODERICK, The Reading Bug
ROBYN BRODERICK, The Reading Bug
‘In a cold, dark Amsterdam winter, a group of unique orphans shine brightly with hope and love. With a little bit of spookiness and a whole lot of quirkiness, this book will capture your heart!’
‘In a cold, dark Amsterdam winter, a group of unique orphans shine brightly with hope and love. With a little bit of spookiness and a whole lot of quirkiness, The Unadoptables will capture your heart!’
‘In a cold, dark Amsterdam winter, a group of unique orphans shine brightly with hope and love. With a little bit of spookiness and a whole lot of quirkiness, this book will capture your heart!’
TEGAN
TEGAN TIGANI, Queen Anne Book Company
TIGANI, Queen Anne Book Company

Books by Hana Tooke
The Unadoptables
The Midnighters
Skulkmoor

Tooke
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First published 2025
Text copyright © Hanneke Tooke, 2025
Illustrations copyright © Ayesha L. Rubio, 2025
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In loving memory of Graham Edward Tooke: a tremendously generous and monstrously creative father, teacher, artist, musician and mischief-maker.































SKULKMOOR MANOR, ENGLAND
27 SEPTEMBER 1839
The sky was blood red and heavily bruised. Skulkmoor Manor sat upon the hill like a giant, jagged crown. A cool dawn breeze sizzled across its summer-warmed stones, giving the impression it was beginning to smoulder. The fox grotesques perched atop each tower were glowing orange, and the air was heavy with anticipation, until –
A long, deep groan.
Followed by a sudden absence of sound.
And, finally, a wail.
Skulkmoor’s new heir had been born.
A girl.
Dagger-like shards of light pierced triumphantly through purple clouds, and ravens scattered from their roosts.
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Her twin sister arrived mere moments later. Now they both slept peacefully together in their crib like cocoonwrapped caterpillars – their rumpled faces turned towards one another, their tiny noses almost touching.
The newly hatched infants were unaware of the splendour that surrounded them: the painted ceiling depicting ancient gods on Mount Olympus, the golden sconces with their beeswax candles and the four-poster bed with its red draped curtains, hiding both their exhausted mother and flustered aunt from view.
Neither baby stirred as the huge doors to the Borning Room burst open and a man dressed in a ruffled-collar nightgown and blue velvet slippers strode in.
‘Was that my legacy I just heard?’ Melvin Fox, Lord of Skulkmoor, and the twins’ father, asked the draped curtains.
The only response he received was a couple of muted grunts of affirmation, then his wife’s gentle snores.
His slippers whispered across the floor as he shuffled over to the ornate crib. He peered in, delight creeping across his sleep-wrinkled face.
‘Which one of these beautiful critters is my heir? Sister, if you would, introduce me to the next Lord of Skulkmoor!’
‘Next Lady of Skulkmoor,’ said a disembodied voice. ‘They are both girls.’
‘Oh,’ said Melvin, with barely a hint of disappointment. ‘Which one is the next Lady of Skulkmoor, then?’
A young woman emerged from behind the draped curtain. She had the same amber eyes as her brother, and the same tired shuffle as she went to investigate the crib.
Her eyes narrowed in confusion, then widened in worry. ‘I don’t know.’
‘It was your job to notice which one of them was born first, Carmelia!’
‘But they both came so quickly,’ Carmelia Fox said breathlessly. ‘I –’
Lord Skulkmoor blinked. ‘You what?’
‘I put her down next to her sister, then hurried back to check there wasn’t another one on its way. I just –’
‘Wasn’t paying attention?’
Carmelia shook her head in exasperation. ‘Oh, brother, can’t you just flip a coin or something?’
‘This isn’t a game, Carmelia! It’s a dynasty!’
The room fell silent as Lord Skulkmoor considered the predicament before him. He could no sooner shake off generations of tradition than he could shake off the large mole under his right eye. And yet, he felt a surprising thrill of delight course through him.
‘A puzzle,’ he said, with a gleam in his eye. ‘Vulpes semper vincit.’
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‘The fox always conquers,’ Carmelia murmured.
‘Yes. I will wait for one of them to present with an undeniable advantage. The true heir will reveal themselves.’
Rosie and Clementine Fox were as different as a summer’s dawn and a winter’s dusk.
Rosie’s hair grew deliciously dark and charmingly mischievous; Clementine’s was splendidly pale and straight.
Clementine’s eyes gleamed like molten honey, but Rosie’s were such a deep nut-brown they seemed to have their own field of gravity.
When Clementine took her first steps before Rosie had mastered more than a backwards crawl, Lord Skulkmoor beamed with satisfaction. But as he cast his gaze to his other daughter, Rosie grinned and uttered her first word: ‘Papa.’
At their mother’s funeral a few years later, he watched in wonder as Rosie arranged wildflowers on the grave with such gentle precision that it looked as if they had been conjured there by forest fairies.
For one glorious moment, he felt certain the truth had been revealed to him.
But then Clementine began to sing in mournful and melodic tones, and he only noticed he was weeping when her song finally ended.
He watched his daughters huddle close together in their shared anguish; his own despair tightened painfully in his chest.
‘It’s impossible to choose between them,’ Carmelia said beneath her mourning veil. ‘My nieces are of equal magnificence.’
‘Are you absolutely certain you don’t remember which one arrived first?’
‘I’ve told you a thousand times already that I do not.’
‘But an heir must be chosen, Carmelia. A dispute like this could get disastrously messy.’
Carmelia fiddled with the fox-shaped brooch on her collar.
‘You’d have more luck judging a competition between a dancing bear and a singing walrus –’
‘A competition?’
‘Oh, Melvin, I didn’t mean –’
‘No, you’re right,’ he said, nodding with grim certainty. ‘A competition is the only way.’
On their thirteenth birthday, the twins appeared in the Great Hall, each holding a small mechanical fox in their hand. Rosie’s tiny cub had a head that twitched from side to side. Clementine’s vixen’s tail swished up and down.
‘You made the same thing?’ Lord Skulkmoor said.
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Rosie smiled. ‘Clementine showed me how to make this truly clever mechanism.’
‘And Rosie helped me paint mine,’ Clementine added.
Their smiles faded at the stern look their father gave them.
‘You mustn’t help each other!’ Lord Skulkmoor said firmly. ‘You must each come up with a new project. Alone, this time.’
On their fourteenth birthday, the twins arrived nervously in the Drawing Room. Rosie held an exquisite painting of the Skulkmoor lake, while Clementine presented an intricately assembled kite.
Their father silently studied each piece in turn.
‘I think Clementine’s is better,’ Rosie blurted, throwing her canvas on to the fire.
‘No, mine doesn’t compare in the slightest!’ Clementine cried, as she smashed her kite with her feet.
Their father groaned in despair.
Each year, the sisters presented their offering. Each year, Lord Skulkmoor found there was no clear winner.
Clementine’s botanical garden was just as wondrous as Rosie’s water garden. Rosie’s archery skills were equally matched by Clementine’s falconry prowess. When Clementine taught her ravens to talk, Rosie ensured her horses could dance.
The same night Clementine caught pneumonia snooping on her twin’s ice-sculpture display, Rosie fell from a tree trying to catch a sneaky glimpse of her sister’s topiary exhibit.
It was her sibling competitor that Rosie blamed when her silk tapestry was torn to shreds. And it was clear to Clementine that her sisterly opponent had smashed the windows of her greenhouse.
Clementine felled her rival’s favourite oak tree to build a chapel in its place. Rosie built a tall folly tower in front of it – shrouding her adversary’s chapel in shadow.
By the time they were married and with a child each of their own, Lord Skulkmoor found the weight of his indecision pressing down heavily on him.
The night before their twenty-ninth birthday, he invited them to dinner.
They sat across the table, cutlery clasped like weapons.
‘I haven’t seen either of you properly for weeks,’ he said. ‘What have you both been working on?’
‘I am building a solarium that will float upon the lake,’ Rosie said.
Clementine scoffed. ‘Well, I am making a flying machine.’
They both looked to their father to see who had impressed him most. Melvin Fox had gone pale and was clutching his chest.
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On his deathbed, Lord Skulkmoor was staring up at the painted ceiling depicting Mount Olympus as Carmelia burst through the huge doors of the Borning Room.
‘I was born in this room, and here too shall I die,’ Melvin said, as a way of greeting.
Carmelia wept as she sat on the bed beside him. They were silent for a long moment, listening to the wheezing sound of Lord Skulkmoor’s breath.
‘They’re building a wall,’ Melvin rasped. ‘What a perfectly ridiculous thing to do. But I suppose I might as well have built that wall myself – it is that ghastly thing that will be my legacy.’
Carmelia said nothing.
‘You must choose,’ he said.
‘I cannot.’
‘You must. You have no children of your own, so I beg you to consider the girls your legacy as much as they are mine.’
‘You know I love them as if they were my own.’
‘Then choose one. I’ve always looked after you, haven’t I? Whoever is chosen will do the same for the other. Help them remember they are sisters.’
The door to the Borning Room opened and a doctor walked in, followed by a serious-looking man holding a seriouslooking document. Lord Skulkmoor didn’t acknowledge their arrival. Instead, he looked pleadingly at his younger sister.
‘Please, Carmelia, promise me you will fix what I have broken. That wall must come down.’
Carmelia nodded. ‘I will try to choose the one who is most worthy.’
Then, with his last breath, her brother spoke his final word. ‘Wait –’
‘Don’t worry, Melvin, I understand,’ Carmelia said soothingly, as a tear snaked down to the tip of her nose. ‘She who outfoxes the other, wins.’

The Skulkmoor Mystery
28 SEPTEMBER 1869
Rosie and Clementine Fox were found dead at Skulkmoor Manor, in an incident investigators have dubbed murder. However, which sister was the victim and which the perpetrator is unknown . . .
Fifty years later . . .


IRIS
EAST O’ THE WALL, SKULKMOOR MANOR
AUGUST 1919
Skulkmoor Manor slept beneath a pewter blanket of fog. Its five towers stretched skyward, out of the fog’s clutches. Lower down, windows fl ickered blurrily into wakefulness. The vulpine grotesque sitting atop the library’s timeworn turrets peered down across the estate, forever licking its stone teeth in devious delight at what lay below.
There were eyes in the mist and skulkers in the shadows.
Wings fluttered under stone arches. Things darted between manicured bushes.
Wrapped in a shroud of tangled ivy, the steeple of a forgotten chapel rose just above the top of Skulkmoor’s
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dividing wall. A stained-glass angel peered slyly down into the western side of the estate. Its moving amber eyes were no trick of the light. They flicked left and right, before finally settling on something interesting.
The eyes blinked, then squinted, then widened in fury.
The lower half of the angel’s face fogged up with angry breath as Iris Fox pressed her own face further against the glass. Her nostrils flared wider, her fists clenched tighter and her amber gaze peered even more determinedly through the two empty eye sockets she had created in the angel’s glass face.
Emerging from the fog was the hazy spectre of a boy.
Iris’ breath got stuck halfway through a sharp inhale as she watched him draw closer. Her skin turned clammy and cold, despite the rage boiling beneath it.
The boy was dressed like a grave robber in an old grey cloak, dragging a brown sack behind him and a shovel slung over his shoulder. Dew drops dripped from the tips of his long, dark, curly hair.
He came to a halt right below her – his breath pluming out his nose.
His shovel dropped first, then his sack.
His gaze lifted.
It swept across The Wall, right up to her steeple-window hiding place.
Iris focused on the distant lake, holding her amber eyes perfectly still. She ignored the watery sting of wanting to blink until she felt his gaze slide past her. Only then did she slowly look towards him again.
Her heart pounded with a jittery mix of anger, suspicion and confusion, as it always did when she saw her cousin.
Ted Fox pointed the tip of his shovel against the earth – mere inches from The Wall’s perimeter – as if he were about to make a delicate, surgical cut. Iris flinched as he pushed it into the soil, as if he had indeed just pressed a scalpel through her skin.
Each crunch of his shovel into the dry earth brought a fresh wave of outrage, and each swoosh of dirt flung on to the grass had her almost gasping with incredulity.
As the pile of dirt beside her cousin grew bigger, so too did Iris’ fury.
It was the kind of anger that coiled tightly in her stomach, clenching her insides so much she thought she might vomit.
The Wall was there for a reason. And that reason was to keep him far away from her side of the estate.
Iris squinted. Whatever was in that sack was big enough that he’d had to drag it rather than carry it.
There was something sticking out from it.
Bile rose in her throat.
It looked like a hand.
Hana Tooke
The next crunch of the shovel was sharper, louder – metal hitting stone with a ringing screech. Iris’ already-gritted teeth ground painfully together at the harshness of the noise. Then, a sharp pair of talons dug into her shoulder and thick black wings beat down on to her head.
Iris shrieked in surprise, just as the crow on her shoulder let out a deep, loud KRAAAAA !
Ted’s eyes snapped to hers.

TED
WEST O’ THE WALL, SKULKMOOR MANOR
AUGUST 1919
The stained-glass angel had blinked at him. Ted was certain of it. He rubbed his eyes, ridding his lashes of morning mist. When he looked back up, the angel’s gaze seemed entirely hollow.
KRAAAAA ! Ted stumbled backwards, dropping his shovel as his feet collided with the lumpy sack behind him. He caught himself just in time, but the sack had opened – revealing the cotton- pale face of the body wedged inside.
‘Sorry, William!’ Ted said, with an apologetic wince at the lifeless thing by his feet. ‘I got spooked by one of those wretched birds. Let’s get you in the ground, shall we?’
Hana Tooke
William Shakespeare peered up accusingly at Ted with his blue button eyes – a few tufts of yellow straw sticking out from behind the earring in his left ear. Ted bent down and pulled the scarecrow’s limp body out of the bag. He heard a sharp gasp above him, followed swiftly by another KRAAAAA !
Ted glared up at the chapel window once more, feeling the slow and heavy thump of his heart pick up pace.
He had to find out where all these birds were coming from. So far, all signs pointed to this forgotten little chapel that was slowly being eaten up by the eastern woodland.
The Wall rose twice his height. Ted approached it hesitantly.
He urged his arms to reach up and take hold of the stones. Old mortar crumbled to dust in his grasp. He dug his fingers in deeper and heaved himself up.
And up.
And up.
When he reached the angel’s left shoulder, he found a small hole in the glass. Ted pressed his face carefully to it, letting his eye adjust to the darkness inside.
An oak tree rose from the broken slabs in front of the altar, up through the chapel’s missing roof. The pulpit was leaning precariously to one side. The pews and aisles were littered with bird droppings. Twigs and feathers wove
through an ancient chandelier dangling from the ruined remains of a rafter.
A statue of the Virgin Mary stood inside an arched recess in the wall. A crow perched atop her head, another one on her outstretched arm, and a few more in the shadowed space behind her. A large stone bowl sat at the base of the tabernacle, filled with seeds and berries.
Ted swallowed down a hard lump of fury.
For an entire year now, he’d been struggling to rid Skulkmoor of crows, magpies and jackdaws. And now it was clear that one of them was luring the birds there.
Anger coursed through him, like prickly thorns running through his veins. His breath hitched. His jaw muscles grew painfully tight.
Then, everything went suddenly black. Ted blinked at the darkness.
The darkness blinked right back at him.
KRAAAAA ! A sharp burst of pain erupted on his right cheek as a beak shot out from another small hole in the glass. Stone scraped his hands, knees and stomach as he slid downwards and landed in a heap at the straw feet of William Shakespeare.
Breathless and sore, he lifted a hand to his bleeding cheek and stared up as a shadow passed the window – far bigger than the bird that had just attacked him.
Hana Tooke
Beneath the pounding in his ears, Ted realized there was another noise emanating from beyond the thick mist – the unmistakable put-put-put of a motorcar. He scrambled for his pocket watch – a new feeling settling over him.
Panic.

IRIS
Hearing the thud of her cousin hitting the ground, Iris grinned triumphantly. She emerged from the other side of the stone column she’d hurriedly pulled herself behind and dangled in the air just shy of the window ledge, fumbling with the ropes and harness that held her aloft. After a few spins and much leg-kicking, she managed to pull herself back to her spying position.
Iris clucked her tongue, and the small crow that was still peering through the window hole cocked its head at her. Another tongue cluck had the bird launching itself up towards her, landing gracefully on her shoulder.
‘Bravo, Quigley,’ Iris whispered. ‘Perhaps he’ll think twice about snooping on our chapel again.’
Iris’ grin faltered; Ted was up on his feet again.
The mere sight of her cousin always left her feeling both breathless and nauseated. She didn’t need the fifty years of
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family tales to remind her that he and his family were irredeemably despicable. The scarecrow was proof enough. He was trying to scare all her beloved birds away.
Iris watched as Ted hastily set the scarecrow in place. Then, clutching his wounded cheek, he set off in the other direction from which he’d come. A sharp slap of realization struck her as she saw where he was headed.
‘Drat!’ Iris cried, her voice echoing off every surface around her.
Quigley flew from her shoulder, and the chapel erupted with flapping wings and discordant cawing. Iris pushed herself away from the window a little too sharply. The momentum sent her into another disorienting spin. She kicked and flailed as she tried to right herself, descending with all the grace of a flapping fledgling falling from its nest.
Her dress billowed around her like an umbrella as the chapel floor rose to meet her. Iris landed almost-confidently on her left leg. But as she tried to straighten her right leg, there was a sharp tug of resistance, and then a loud SNAP.
The two metal support bars that usually hugged either side of her right thigh were now flailing uselessly by her knees; the leather strap that held them to her leg was broken clean in half.
‘Double drat!’
Iris shook her leg free. It was too late to fix the leg brace now; she needed to catch up with Ted.
Patting her head, she could feel that her just-past-the-ear hair was still perfectly coifed and the periwinkle ribbon tied around her head remained firmly in place. Her fingers moved down, readjusting her lace collar, then further down to her dress, which was, miraculously, wrinkle-free.
Her relief was cut short, however, when she looked down at her feet and wriggled her grubby, stockinged toes.
Once again, she had forgotten to wear shoes.
The birds were settling once more into nooks, crannies and tree branches – all of them eyeing Iris with their glassy stares as she limped over to the oak tree.
Her sequined velvet handbag dangled from a low branch. There was a small mound of dirt by the tree’s trunk, with flowers laid neatly across it. Above, carved deeply into the tree itself, was a wonky heart with the initials ‘D.F.’ inside.
‘I didn’t forget about today,’ she whispered, lifting the handbag and setting it over her shoulder.
Iris wished she could hide in her chapel and pretend that nothing existed beyond its walls. Just her, her birds and the memorial. But she couldn’t.
Instead, she reached into her handbag, pulled out a handful of worms and threw them on to the chapel floor, smiling as the crows descended in a feathery maelstrom of wings.
Hana Tooke
‘I’ll be back soon,’ she told the birds and the small mound of dirt. ‘And I’ll be back with good news. I swear it.’
She limped towards the chapel’s arched doorway, trying to ignore the dull ache in her right hip. The door had long since fallen off its rusted hinges and now lay sprawled across the cracked flagstone floor. It wobbled as Iris hurried over it, and had it not been for her momentum, she might have tumbled sideways. Vines covered the chapel’s entrance, but there was a small, Iris-sized gap in the bottom corner. She squeezed herself through, emerging into the woodland on the other side.
The morning mist was slowly lifting. Thin ribbons of sunlight streamed in from the tree canopy, turning the forest floor into a canvas of dappled greens and browns. Iris hobbled to a foot-trodden path that ran parallel with The Wall. If she were to turn left, she’d soon be out of the woods and on her way back to Skulkmoor Manor. Instead, she did what she rarely ever did and turned right.
Towards Skulkmoor’s Sorrow.
The path led straight to the cemetery’s eastern gate. She pressed on, wincing as the dull ache in her hip became a burning throb, thinking of all the ways she could destroy Ted’s scarecrow.
It could accidentally catch fire.
A large stone could accidentally fall from The Wall and flatten it.
Finally, she reached the point where The Wall split in two directions, curving around in a large circle. All Iris and Ted’s dead ancestors lay within that circle, and it was the only part of the estate that hadn’t been cleaved in two.
She had no way to tell how far ahead or behind Ted was as she hurried towards the black iron gates just ahead of her. They were already wide open, and the muddy woodland ground ended abruptly, stretching beyond in a paved path.
In the centre of the cemetery was a cluster of imposing mausoleums, housing the remains of each previous Lord or Lady of Skulkmoor. Surrounding that inner ring, behind iron railings and walls of neatly trimmed hedges, were hundreds of less-impressive tombstones – generations of dead sons, daughters, sisters, brothers, wives, husbands and pets.
Skulkmoor’s long history stretched out before her, and Iris felt it oddly fitting that they were all meeting here today.
Today was history in the making.
It was the day her family would finally triumph over Ted’s.
But first, she had to make sure she got to the meeting place before him. Her lateness might just be forgiven if Ted was even later than she was.
Iris hurried onward, her eyes fixed on her destination: a mausoleum on the outer edge of the inner ring, with no
Hana Tooke
statues, no plaque, no flowers, no body buried inside it. Not yet, anyway. Just behind it was the gate she had to get to.
She only noticed the second set of hurried footsteps as she rounded the empty mausoleum. Her tired but determined legs propelled her forward. She saw, all too clearly, Ted’s eyes widen behind his curtain of curls, and heard, all too loudly, the tiny gasp that came from his lips.
She tried to stop, but couldn’t. Her momentum sent her colliding straight into him.