THE PENDERWICKS
A CORGI YEARLING BOOK 978 0 440 86730 2

Originally published in the US by Alfred A. Knopf,
a division of Random House Inc.

Published in Great Britain by David Fickling Books,
a division of Random House Children’s Books

Knopf edition published 2005
David Fickling Books edition published 2006
Corgi Yearling edition published 2007

5 7 9 1 0 8 6 4

Text copyright © Jeanne Birdsall, 2005
Illustrations copyright © David Frankland, 2005

The right of Jeanne Birdsall to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publishers.

Corgi Yearling Books are published by Random House Children’s Books, 61–63 Uxbridge Road, London W5 5SA, a division of The Random House Group Ltd,

THE RANDOM HOUSE GROUP Limited Reg. No. 954009 www.kidsatrandomhouse.co.uk

A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

Printed in the UK by CPI Bookmarque, Croydon, CR0 4TD

Contents

Cover Page

Title Page

Copyright Page

Dedication

Praise

About the Author

One	A Boy at the Window
Two	A Tunnel Through the Hedge
Three	The MOOPS
Four	The Apology
Five	A New Hero
Six	Rabbits and a Long Ladder
Seven	Borrowed Finery
Eight	The Birthday Dinner
Nine	Shocking News
Ten	A Bold Escape
Eleven	Another Rescue
Twelve	Sir Barnaby Patterne
Thirteen	The Piano Lesson
Fourteen	A Midnight Adventure
Fifteen	The Shredded Book
Sixteen	The Runaway
Seventeen	The Next-to-Last Day
Eighteen	Goodbye for Now

for Bluey

Rosalind had gone too far. Skye knew it, and she knew that Rosalind knew it, too, by the look on her face. And Skye knew that Rosalind was about to apologize. But it was too late. Skye lost her temper.

‘You promised you’d come back inside and help me, and you didn’t, so it’s your fault as much as mine. Besides, these stupid cookies weren’t my idea in the first place. They were your and Jane’s idea. I would never make cookies for a boy, especially a rich, stuck-up boy with a snooty mother!’

Suddenly the kitchen was very quiet and no one was looking at Skye. They were all looking the other way, towards the door. Slowly Skye turned her heard and saw what she least wanted to see – Jane and Jeffrey, staring in through the screen. And again Jeffrey was so pale Skye could count his freckles.

‘Oh, no.’

More praise for The Penderwicks:

‘Birdsall follows in the footsteps of Elizabeth Enright, Edward Eager, and Noel Streatfeild’ Booklist

‘I can see why Jeanne Birdsall won the prestigious US National Book Award with The Penderwicks . . . through her book-mad alter ego Jane, Birdsall flags up Alcott, Nesbit and Lewis; her own writing bears comparison with all three’ Independent

‘A well-crafted story, warm, funny, rounded – a real pick-me-up’ TES

‘A warm-hearted and happy read’ The School Librarian

‘Full and satisfying’ Carousel

About the author:

Jeanne Birdsall says: ‘By the time I was ten or eleven, I’d run out of books to read. Each week I’d go to the library hoping that one of my favourite authors had written something new. Or even better, maybe I’d find a new author who wrote just the kind of books I loved the best. But most weeks I’d have to take home books I’d already read, some of them eight, nine, or ten times. I promised myself then that I’d become a writer someday, to give readers like me a few more books to discover and enjoy. The Penderwicks is my first.’

Jeanne lives in Massachusetts, USA, with her husband, four cats, two rabbits, a pet snail, and a dog called Cagney.

Chapter One

A Boy at the Window

For a long time after that summer, the four Penderwick sisters still talked of Arundel. Fate drove us there, Jane would say. No, it was the greedy land-lord who sold our vacation house on Cape Cod, someone else would say, probably Skye.

Who knew which was right? But it was true that the beach house they usually rented had been sold at the last minute, and the Penderwicks were suddenly without summer plans. Mr Penderwick called everywhere, but Cape Cod was booked solid, and his daughters were starting to think they would be spending their whole vacation at home in Cameron, Massachusetts. Not that they didn’t love Cameron, but what is summer without a trip to somewhere special? Then, out of the blue, Mr Penderwick heard through a friend of a friend about a cottage in the Berkshire Mountains. It had plenty of bedrooms and a big fenced-in pen for a dog – perfect for big, black, clumsy, lovable Hound Penderwick – and it was available to be rented for three weeks in August. Mr Penderwick snatched it up, sight unseen.

He didn’t know what he was getting us into, Batty would say. Rosalind always said, It’s too bad Mommy never saw Arundel – she would have loved the gardens. And Jane would say, There are much better gardens in heaven. And Mommy will never have to bump into Mrs Tifton in heaven, Skye added to make her sisters laugh. And laugh they would, and the talk would move on to other things, until the next time someone remembered Arundel.

But all that is in the future. When our story begins, Batty is still only four years old. Rosalind is twelve, Skye eleven and Jane ten. They’re in their car with Mr Penderwick and Hound. The family is on the way to Arundel and, unfortunately, they’re lost.

‘It’s Batty’s fault,’ said Skye.

‘It is not,’ said Batty.

‘Of course it is,’ said Skye. ‘We wouldn’t be lost if Hound hadn’t eaten the map, and Hound wouldn’t have eaten the map if you hadn’t hidden your sandwich in it.’

‘Maybe it’s fate that Hound ate the map. Maybe we’ll discover something wonderful while we’re lost,’ said Jane.

‘We’ll discover that when I’m in the back seat for too long with my younger sisters, I go insane and murder them,’ said Skye.

‘Steady, troops,’ said Mr Penderwick. ‘Rosalind, how about a game?’

‘Let’s do I Went to the Zoo and I Saw,’ said Rosalind. ‘I went to the zoo and I saw an anteater. Jane?’

‘I went to the zoo and I saw an anteater and a buffalo,’ said Jane.

Batty was between Jane and Skye, so it was her turn next. ‘I went to the zoo and I saw an anteater, a buffalo and a cangaroo.’

‘Kangaroo starts with a k, not a c,’ said Skye.

‘It does not. It starts with a c, like cat,’ said Batty.

‘Just take your turn, Skye,’ said Rosalind.

‘There’s no point in playing if we don’t do it right.’

Rosalind, who was sitting in the front seat with Mr Penderwick, turned round and gave Skye her oldest-sister glare. It wouldn’t do much, Rosalind knew. After all, Skye was only one year younger than she was. But it might quieten her long enough for Rosalind to concentrate on where they were going. They really were badly lost. This trip should have taken an hour and a half, and already they’d been on the road for three. Rosalind looked over at her father in the driver’s seat. His glasses were slipping down his nose and he was humming his favourite Beethoven symphony, the one about spring. Rosalind knew this meant he was thinking about plants – he was a professor of botany – instead of his driving.

‘Daddy,’ she said, ‘what do you remember about the map?’

‘We’re supposed to go past a little town called Framley, then make a few turns and look for number eleven Stafford Street.’

‘Didn’t we see Framley a while ago? And look,’ she said, pointing out of the window. ‘We’ve been past those cows before.’

‘Good eyes, Rosy,’ he said. ‘But weren’t we going in the other direction last time? Maybe this way will do the trick.’

‘No, because all we saw along here were more cow fields, remember?’

‘Oh, yes.’ Mr Penderwick stopped the car, turned it round and went back the other way.

‘We need to find someone who can give us directions,’ said Rosalind.

‘We need to find a helicopter that can airlift us out of here,’ said Skye. ‘And keep your stupid wings to yourself!’ She was talking to Batty, who, as always, was wearing her beloved orange-and-black butterfly wings.

‘They’re not stupid,’ said Batty.

‘Woof,’ said Hound from his place among the boxes and suitcases in the very back of the car. He took Batty’s side in every discussion.

‘Lost and weary, the brave explorers and their faithful beast argued among themselves. Only Sabrina Starr remained calm,’ said Jane. Sabrina Starr was the heroine of books that Jane wrote. She rescued things. In the first book, it was a cricket. Then came Sabrina Starr Rescues a Baby Sparrow, Sabrina Starr Rescues a Turtle and, most recently, Sabrina Starr Rescues a Groundhog. Rosalind knew that Jane was looking for ideas on what Sabrina should rescue next. Skye had suggested a man-eating crocodile, who would devour the heroine and put an end to the series, but the rest of the family had shouted her down. They enjoyed Jane’s books.

There was a loud oomph in the back seat. Rosalind glanced round to make sure violence hadn’t broken out, but it was only Batty struggling with her car seat – she was trying to twist herself backwards to see Hound. Jane was jotting in her favourite blue notebook. So they were both all right. But Skye was blowing out her cheeks and imitating a fish, which meant she was even more bored than Rosalind had feared. They’d better find this cottage soon.

Then Rosalind spotted the truck pulled over by the side of the road. ‘Stop, Daddy! Maybe we can get directions.’

Mr Penderwick pulled over and Rosalind got out of the car. She now saw that the truck had TOMATOES painted in large letters on each of its doors. Next to the truck was a wooden table piled high with fat red tomatoes and, behind the table, an old man wearing worn blue jeans and a green shirt with HARRY’S TOMATOES embroidered across the pocket.

‘Tomatoes?’ he asked.

‘Ask if they’re magic tomatoes,’ Rosalind heard. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Skye hauling Jane back in through the car window.

‘My younger sisters,’ said Rosalind apologetically to the old man.

‘Had six of ’em myself.’

Rosalind tried to imagine having six younger sisters, but she kept coming up with each of her sisters turned into twins. She shuddered and said, ‘Your tomatoes look delicious, but what I really need is directions. We’re looking for number eleven Stafford Street.’

‘Arundel?’

‘I don’t know about any Arundel. We’re supposed to be renting a cottage at that address.’

‘That’s Arundel, Mrs Tifton’s place. Beautiful woman. Snooty as all get-out, too.’

‘Oh, dear.’

‘You’ll be fine. There are a couple of nice surprises over there. You’re going to have to keep that blonde one under control, though,’ he said, nodding towards the car, where Skye and Jane were now leaning out of the window together, listening. Muffled complaints could be heard from Batty, who was being squashed.

‘Why me?’ called Skye.

The man winked at Rosalind. ‘I can always spot the troublemakers. I was one myself. Now, tell your dad to go down this road a little way, take the first left, then a quick right, and look for number eleven.’

‘Thank you,’ said Rosalind, and turned to go.

‘Hold on a minute.’ He plopped a half-dozen tomatoes into a paper bag. ‘Take these.’

‘Oh, I can’t,’ said Rosalind.

‘Sure you can. Tell your dad they’re a present from Harry.’ He handed Rosalind the bag. ‘And one last thing, young lady. You and your sisters better stay clear of Mrs Tifton’s gardens. She’s touchy about those gardens. Enjoy the tomatoes!’

Rosalind got back into the car with her bag of tomatoes. ‘Did you hear him?’

‘Straight, then left, then right, then look for number eleven,’ said Mr Penderwick, starting up the car.

‘What’s this Arundel he was talking about?’ said Skye.

‘And who’s Mrs Tifton?’ said Jane.

‘Hound needs to go to the bathroom,’ said Batty.

‘Soon, honey,’ said Rosalind. ‘Daddy, here – go left.’

A few moments later, they were turning onto Stafford Street, and then suddenly Mr Penderwick stopped the car in the middle of the road and everyone stared in amazement. What had the family expected from a rental cottage? A cosy little tumble-down house with a few pots of geraniums in the front garden. Even Harry the Tomato Man’s news hadn’t changed that. If anyone had thought about it at all, they had figured snooty Mrs Tifton lived in a cottage next to theirs and grew vegetables in carefully guarded garden plots.

That’s not what they saw. What they saw were two tall, elegant stone pillars, with NUMBER ELEVEN carved across one and ARUNDEL across the other. Beyond the pillars was a lane winding off into the distance, with double rows of tall poplars on either side. And past the poplars was a beautifully tended lawn dotted with graceful trees. There was no house in sight.

‘Holy bananas,’ said Skye.

‘Cottages don’t have front gardens like this,’ said Rosalind. ‘Daddy, are you sure you remembered the right address?’

‘Pretty sure,’ said Mr Penderwick.

He turned the car and started slowly down the lane, which wandered on and on, until the Penderwicks thought they would never reach the end. But finally there was one last curve, the poplar trees ended, and Rosalind’s fears were realized. ‘Daddy, that’s not a cottage.’

‘No, I agree. That’s a mansion.’

And so it was, a huge mansion crouching in the middle of formal gardens. Built from grey stone, it was covered with towers, balconies, terraces and turrets that jutted every which way. And the gardens! There were fountains and flowering hedges and marble statues, and that was just in the part the Penderwicks could see from the lane.

‘The exhausted travellers saw before them a dwelling fit for kings. Cair Paravel! El Dorado! Camelot!’ said Jane.

‘Too bad we’re not kings,’ said Skye.

‘We’re still lost,’ said Rosalind, discouraged.

‘Buck up, Rosy,’ said Mr Penderwick. ‘Here comes someone we can ask.’

A tall teenage boy pushing a wheelbarrow had appeared from behind a large statue of Cupid and Venus. Mr Penderwick rolled down his car window, but before he could call out to the boy, a familiar gagging noise came from the very back of the car.

‘Hound’s going to barf!’ shrieked Batty.

The sisters knew the drill. In a flash they flew out and round to the back of the car and dragged poor Hound over to the side of the lane. He threw up on Jane’s sneakers.

‘Oh, Hound, how could you?’ moaned Jane, looking down at her yellow high-tops, but Hound had already wandered off to inspect a bush.

‘This isn’t as bad as the time he ate pizza out of the garbage can,’ said Skye.

Batty crouched down to inspect the mess. ‘There’s the map,’ she said, pointing.

‘Don’t touch it!’ Rosalind exclaimed. ‘And, Jane, stop shaking your sneakers. You’re splashing it around. Stand still, everyone, until I get back.’ She ran over to the car for paper towels.

The teenager with the wheelbarrow had come over to the driveway, and Mr Penderwick had got out of the car and was talking to him. ‘I see there’s some Linnaea borealis here along the drive. Odd place for it. But I’m particularly interested in Cypripedium arietinum, if you know of any good places to hunt for it. It likes swampy land, some shade . . .’

Rosalind ducked her head into the back of the car and rooted around among the luggage. Her father was talking in Latin about plants, which meant he was happy. She hoped he remembered to ask the boy about directions, too. He looked nice, that boy. Eighteen or maybe nineteen years old, with light brown hair sticking out from under a Red Sox baseball cap. Rosalind peered round the car and sneaked a look at the boy’s hands. Her best friend, Anna, always said that you could tell a lot about people from their hands. The boy was wearing gardening gloves.

The paper towels were behind Mr Penderwick’s computer and under a soccer ball. Rosalind grabbed a bunch and rushed back to her sisters. Jane and Skye were piling leaves on top of Hound’s barf.

‘Remember when he ate that lemon cream pie off the Geigers’ picnic table? He was really sick that time,’ said Skye.

‘What about when he stole a whole meat loaf out of the refrigerator? He was sick for two days,’ said Jane.

‘Shh,’ said Rosalind, wiping Jane’s sneakers clean. Mr Penderwick and the boy were walking over.

‘Girls, this is Cagney,’ said Mr Penderwick.

‘Hi,’ said Cagney, with a big smile. He slipped off his gloves and stuck them into his jeans pocket. Rosalind looked hard at his hands, but they were just regular old hands to her. She wished Anna were there.

‘Cagney, these four are my pride and joy. The one with blonde hair is my second daughter, Skye—’

‘Blue Skye, blue eyes,’ said Skye, opening wide her blue eyes to demonstrate.

‘That’s how you can remember which one she is,’ said Jane. ‘Blue eyes and straight blonde hair. The rest of us have identical brown eyes and dark curly hair. People get me and Rosalind mixed up all the time.’

‘They do not. I’m much taller than you are,’ said Rosalind, painfully aware that not only was she holding vomity paper towels, she was wearing her shirt with WILDWOOD ELEMENTARY SCHOOL across the front. Why had she worn it? She didn’t want people to think she was still in elementary school. She was going to start seventh grade in September.

‘Yes, well, the tall one is Rosalind, my oldest, the short one is Jane, and—’ Mr Penderwick looked around him.

‘Over there,’ said Jane, pointing to the orange-and-black wings sticking out from behind a tree.

‘And that’s Batty, the shy one. Now, troops, good news. This is the right place after all. Cagney’s the gardener here at Arundel Hall – that’s what this mansion is called – and he’s been expecting us. Our cottage is at the back of the estate grounds.’

‘It used to be the guest cottage for the main house,’ said Cagney. ‘Back in the days when General and Mrs Framley were alive. It’s quieter here now with Mrs Tifton in charge.’

‘Mrs Tifton!’ exclaimed Jane, and would have said more if Rosalind had not dug an elbow into her ribs.

‘OK, girls, let’s be off,’ said Mr Penderwick. ‘And Cagney, let’s have that talk about the native flora sometime soon.’

‘Yes, I’d like that,’ said Cagney. ‘Now, to get to the cottage, take the driveway up there on the left, and follow it past the carriage house and into the formal gardens. You’ll see the sunken garden to your left and the Greek pavilion to the right, and then you’ll drive through the boundary hedge. The cottage is a few hundred more yards along. It’s yellow. You can’t miss it. And the key is under the mat.’

Rosalind rounded up Batty, Skye fetched Hound, and soon everyone was in the car ready to go, except for Jane. She was standing in the driveway, staring up at Arundel Hall.

Rosalind leaned out of the window. ‘Jane, come on.’

Jane reluctantly turned away from the mansion. ‘I thought I saw a boy in that window up there. He was looking down at us.’

Skye leaned across Batty, flattening her, and looked out of Jane’s window. ‘Where?’

‘Up there,’ said Jane, pointing. ‘Top row, on the right.’

‘No one’s there,’ said Skye.

‘Get off me,’ said Batty.

Skye settled back into her own seat. ‘You imagined him, Jane.’

‘Maybe. I don’t think so,’ said Jane. ‘But whether I did or not, he’s given me a good idea.’

Chapter Two

A Tunnel Through the Hedge

Arundel Cottage was not only yellow, it was the creamiest, butteriest yellow the Penderwicks had ever seen. It was all a cottage is supposed to be, small and snug, with a front porch, pink climbing roses and lots of trees for shade.

The key was under the doormat just as Cagney had said it would be. Mr Penderwick unlocked the door and the family piled through. If possible, the inside of the cottage was even more charming than the outside, all in pretty shades of blues and greens and with the comfortable kind of furniture too sturdy to damage unless you try. Off the living room was a cosy study with a big desk and a sleeping couch, which Mr Penderwick immediately claimed for himself, saying he wanted to be as far as possible from the madding crowd.

Now it was time for the sisters to go upstairs and choose their bedrooms.

‘Dibs first choice.’ Skye headed towards the steps with her suitcase.

‘Not fair!’ said Jane. ‘I hadn’t thought of it yet.’

‘Right. I thought of it first, which is why I get first choice,’ said Skye, already halfway up to the first floor.

‘Come back, Skye,’ said Rosalind. ‘Hound draws for order.’

Skye groaned and reluctantly came back downstairs. She hated leaving important things up to Hound, and besides, he usually drew her last.

The Hound Draw for Order was a time-honoured ritual with the sisters. Names were written on small pieces of paper, then dropped on the ground along with broken bits of dog biscuit. As Hound snuffled among the biscuit pieces, he couldn’t help but knock into the papers. The person whose paper his big nose hit first was given first choice. Second hit, second choice, and so on.

Rosalind and Jane readied the slips of paper, Batty crumbled a dog biscuit and Skye held Hound, whispering her name over and over in his ear, trying to hypnotize him. Her efforts were useless. Once let go, he touched Jane’s paper first, then Rosalind’s and then Batty’s. Skye’s piece of paper he ate along with the last piece of biscuit.

‘Great,’ said Skye sadly. ‘I’ve got fourth choice and Hound’s going to throw up again.’

Jane, Batty and Rosalind flew up the steps with their suitcases to stake their claims on bedrooms. Skye sat downstairs and fretted. She’d been looking forward to picking out a special bedroom, painted white maybe, which she could keep neat and organized. Once upon a time, many years ago, she had slept in a room like that. But then Batty was born and put into Jane’s room, and Jane moved in with Skye, and suddenly half of Skye’s bedroom was painted lavender and filled with Jane’s dolls and books and untidy piles of paper. Even that wouldn’t have been so bad if the dolls and papers weren’t always drifting over to Skye’s side of the room. It had driven Skye crazy and, since Jane had become no neater over time, still did. And now, on vacation, Skye had the last pick and would probably end up in some dark, ugly closet. Life was unfair.

Rosalind was calling from upstairs. ‘Skye, we’ve all chosen. Come and see your bedroom.’

Skye dragged herself up the stairs and down the hall to the bedroom Rosalind pointed out. She walked in and was so surprised she let her suitcase fall to the floor with a loud thump. This was no dark, ugly closet. Her sisters had left her the most perfect bedroom Skye had ever seen. The room was large and white and sparkling clean, with polished wood floors and three windows. And two beds! A whole extra bed without a sister to go along with it!

She wouldn’t change a thing about the room, Skye decided. She would leave her stuff in her suitcase, and store the suitcase in the closet, and keep the dresser top bare and the bookshelf empty. No dolls, no combs and brushes, no notebooks full of Sabrina Starr stories. And she would use both beds, sleeping in one on Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays and in the other on Tuesdays, Thursdays and Saturdays. Sunday nights she would have to switch in the middle of the night.

Skye opened her suitcase, pulled out a maths book – she was teaching herself algebra for fun – and wrote the bed schedule next to her favourite word problem about trains travelling in different directions. Next she rummaged around for her lucky camouflage hat, the one she’d been wearing when she fell off the garage roof and didn’t break any arms or legs. There it was, under her black T-shirts. Skye crammed the hat onto her head and closed the suitcase and shoved it into the closet.

‘Now for exploring,’ she said, and, after one more long, satisfied look at her glorious bedroom, left in search of her sisters.

Rosalind was down the hall in a small bedroom – with only one window and one bed – neatly transferring clothes from her suitcase to dresser drawers.

‘You gave me the better room,’ said Skye.

‘I wanted to be near Batty,’ said Rosalind.

‘Well, thanks,’ said Skye, who knew that Rosalind would have loved the luxury of a large bedroom.

Rosalind took a framed picture out of her suitcase and set it on her bedside table. Skye walked over to look, though she already knew the picture by heart – Rosalind kept it beside her bed at home, too, and Skye had seen it a million times. It showed Mrs Penderwick laughing and hugging little baby Rosalind, still so young that not even Skye had been born yet, let alone Jane or Batty.

It was a strongly held belief among all the Penderwicks that Skye would grow up to look exactly like her mother. All the Penderwicks, that is, except for Skye. She thought her mother the most beautiful woman she had ever seen, and it certainly wasn’t beauty that Skye saw when she looked in the mirror. The blonde hair and blue eyes were the same, true, but that was it, as far as Skye could tell. And then, of course, there was that other big difference – Skye couldn’t imagine herself ever hugging a little baby and laughing at the same time.

Batty burst out of Rosalind’s closet, her wings flying behind her.

‘I found a secret passage,’ said Batty.

Skye looked into the closet and saw straight through into another bedroom exactly like Rosalind’s, but with Batty’s suitcase lying open on the bed. ‘It’s not a secret passage. It’s a closet between two bedrooms.’

‘It is a secret passage. And you can’t use it.’

Skye turned her back on Batty and said to Rosalind, ‘I’m going exploring. Do you want to come?’

‘Not now, I’m still getting settled. Can Batty go with you?’ said Rosalind.

‘No,’ said Skye and Batty together. Skye left before Rosalind could try to change anyone’s mind.

Jane had staked her claim on the second floor, which was really the attic. Skye skipped up a steep flight of steps and discovered her younger sister perched on a narrow brass bed, writing furiously in a blue notebook and muttering to herself. ‘“The boy Arthur shook the iron bars and raged against his wicked kidnapper” – no, that’s too dramatic. How about “Arthur stared sadly” – no – “the lonely boy named Arthur stared sadly out of the window, never dreaming that help was on the way.” Oh, that’s a good sentence. “Unknown to him, the great Sabrina—”’

Skye interrupted her. ‘I’m going exploring. Do you want to come?’

Her eyes shining, Jane said, ‘Look at this wonderful bedroom. It was meant for an author. I know I can write the perfect Sabrina Starr book here. I can feel it. Can you feel it?’

Skye looked around the tiny room with its sloped ceiling and one round window high on the wall. Already there were books all over the floor. ‘No. I don’t feel anything.’

‘Oh, try harder. The feeling is so strong. I’m sure that some famous writer has been here before me. Like Louisa May Alcott or Patricia MacLachlan.’

‘Jane, do you want to come with me or not?’

‘Not now. I have to write down some ideas for my book. I might have Sabrina Starr rescue an actual person in this book. A boy. What do you think?’

‘I didn’t think she could even rescue a groundhog,’ said Skye, but Jane was already writing again.

Skye ran down two flights of steps and outside. She found her father getting Hound settled in his pen. It was, to Skye’s eyes, a sort of doggy paradise. The metal fence was tall – and Hound didn’t like fences – but the pen was large, and inside it were trees for shade, sticks for chewing, and a patch of earth for digging. Plus Mr Penderwick had put out a huge bowl of Hound’s favourite food and two bowls of fresh water. Hound, however, wasn’t grateful. When he saw Skye, he rushed to the gate, barking and whining as though he was being locked up in a dungeon.

‘Be still, demon dog,’ said Mr Penderwick.

‘He’s trying to open the gate,’ said Skye, watching Hound poke and prod with his nose at the metal latch.

‘That latch is dog-proof. He’ll be safe in here.’

Skye reached through the fence and scratched Hound’s nose. ‘Daddy, I’m going exploring. Is that OK?’

‘As long as you’re back in an hour for dinner. And Skye, Quidquid agas prudenter agas et respice finem.’

Mr Penderwick didn’t use Latin just for plants, but in his everyday speech, too. He said that it kept his brain properly exercised. Much of the time his daughters had no idea what he was talking about, but Skye was used to hearing this phrase, which Mr Penderwick translated loosely as ‘Look before you leap and please don’t do anything crazy.’

‘Don’t worry, Daddy,’ she said, and meant it. Sneaking into Mrs Tifton’s gardens, which is what Skye planned to do, wasn’t crazy. On the other hand, it wasn’t the most correct thing – according to Harry the Tomato Man – but maybe he’d been wrong. Maybe Mrs Tifton loved having strangers wandering around her gardens. After all, anything’s possible, thought Skye, and off she went, waving goodbye to her father and Hound.

The land surrounding the cottage was large enough for three or four soccer fields. Not that anyone could play a normal game of soccer there, thought Skye – too many trees. They grew thickest behind the cottage, and the spaces between were filled with nasty, thorny underbrush. The land in front was much more inviting. Here the trees were farther apart, and pretty grasses and wild flowers grew among them.

On one side of the property, a high stone wall separated the cottage from its neighbours. Along the front and the other side ran a boundary hedge. Skye knew that Mrs Tifton’s gardens were beyond that hedge. She had two options for getting there. She could walk back up the driveway and through the break in the hedge. Boring, and likely to lead to being caught – it’s hard to hide on a driveway. Or she could crawl through the hedge and emerge in some sheltered garden nook where neither Mrs Tifton nor anyone else would be likely to see her.

Definitely option two, Skye decided, veering away from the driveway and towards the hedge. But she found the hedge to be thicker and more prickly than she had anticipated, and after several attempts to crawl through, she had accomplished nothing except snagging her hat twice and scratching her arms until it looked like she had fought a tiger.

Then, when she was just about to give up and go round by the driveway, she discovered a way in. It was a tunnel, carefully hidden behind a clump of tall wild flowers and just the right size for going through on all fours. Now, if Rosalind had been the first to discover that tunnel, she would have noticed that it was too neatly trimmed and thorn-free to be there by mistake, and she would have figured that someone used it often and that the someone probably wasn’t Mrs Tifton. If Jane had been the first, she, too, would have