Charlie Bone and the Beast (The Children of the Red King, Book 6) Part 4 pps

"All the same." Mrs. Kettle drained her cup.

The tea didn't appear to have had a bouncy

effect on her at all. In fact, she looked quite

dejected. "Cook's such a good friend," she re￾peated, shaking her head.

To cheer her up, Benjamin asked if she had

any electric kettles.

Mrs. Kettle looked quite indignant. "Do you

call them kettles? I certainly don't. A kettle

boils when a hot stove tells it to, not when a

button is pressed."

Benjamin gave an apologetic smile. "Sorry."

Charlie decided it was time to leave. They

had come for Rembrandt and they had got

him. He stood up and thanked Mrs. Kettle

for the tea.

"You're very welcome, Charlie Bone," said

Mrs. Kettle. "You'll come again, won't you?"

Charlie said, "Yes, of course."

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Mrs. Kettle led the way back into the shop

but, just as he was about to pass through the

archway, Charlie stopped. He felt something

to the left of him, tugging in an extraordinary

way. He had to steady himself against the

wall, and an odd tickle in his

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throat made him cough. He turned his head,

very slowly, and saw on a round shadowy

table, a dark, lumpish thing. Looking closer,

he saw that it was an ancient kettle,

blackened by smoke.

"I told you my best kettle was behind the

scenes," Mrs. Kettle said softly.

"THAT'S your best kettle?" Charlie moved

closer to the blackened thing.

"Oh, yes, by far." Mrs. Kettle spoke so quietly

Charlie could barely hear her, and yet he

sensed her excitement. "It was made by my

ancestor Feromel more than five hundred

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years ago. Feromel was a blacksmith and a

magician. He made many magical iron pots.

Goodness knows where they are now." She

came and stood directly behind Charlie.

"You're a traveler, aren't you, Charlie? I

wondered if you would feel it."

"Feel it?" Charlie ran his hand over the

charred, rusty-looking handle. The lid had a

round polished knob in the center. Charlie

gently lifted it. He gazed into a circle of dark

liquid. "It's full," he said.

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"It's always full," said Mrs. Kettle. "Always. It

can't be emptied. It can only boil dry. But the

day when that happens will be the end ..."

Billy crept up to them. "The end of what?"

"The world?" Charlie's gaze was held by the

smooth black water.

"The end of a life," said Mrs. Kettle. "Put the

lid back, Charlie, and take it with you."

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"Me?" Charlie quickly replaced the lid. "It's

yours, Mrs. Kettle. I can't take it."

"Just for a while," she said gently. You must,

Charlie. Feromel would want you to."

"But why?" Charlie stared at the round, black

thing, his hands at his sides, his fingers

twitching anxiously. He didn't want the an￾cient kettle with its ability to foretell a death.

How many lives had been lost, he wondered,

while it boiled away, merrily, in dark,

smokey places, poisoning the air with its sin￾ister steam.

"It's not a bad thing, Charlie." Mrs. Kettle lif￾ted her

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precious heirloom and held it out to Charlie.

And then his tingling fingers had closed

around the handle.

"I hope it will never boil dry for you,

Charlie," said Mrs. Kettle. "These are

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dangerous times for people like you, espe￾cially with that fish boy around, so it's bound

to get warm. It has no need of a stove. It will

sit wherever you want. If there is a hint of

danger in the air it will heat up. The hotter it

gets, the more you will need to look out for

yourself." She smiled at everyone. "Now get

along with you, my dears. And I'll keep an

eye on the fish shop."

They thanked Mrs. Kettle for the tea and, a

few moments later, Charlie found himself

walking down Piminy Street with a black

kettle swinging from his hand.

At the end of the street, they turned a corner

and ran straight into Emma and Olivia, with

two very small children.

"Oh, no, not Charlie Bone," said Olivia, and

she ran off in the direction of High Street.

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A STONE TROLL

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