Abigore descended the winding stairs, supported by Gastogne, his trusted talking cane. He went as fast as a supercentenarian could go – especially one afflicted by rheumatism and cataracts. At every step, he pushed aside piles of ticking clocks which obstructed his way. When he arrived on the ground floor, he limped through the long corridor covered by worn-out purple wallpaper, which was barely visible under rows of family portraits. His numerous and varied family had seen generations of magicians, wizards, and fortune tellers: Aunt Siberia Arckright, Aunt Malvasia Toddington, Uncle Corvelio, Aunt Partenope Finnigan, Great-great-grandfather Malverick of Canterbury, Great-grandmother Timeline Tubble, Great-uncle the Duke of Horwood, Great-grandfather Eric Chessmate, and then... him. Abigore's eyes stopped, as if attracted by a magnet, on the painting by Sir Vinyl Thinkeling Doyle, his great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-uncle on his mother's side.

It was thanks to Sir Doyle that, in the year 1119, the earth had avoided a perennial lunar eclipse. Doyle had also discovered the medicinal properties of shooting star dust mixed with wild moss and devil-fish tears, had invented extraordinary spells, such as the one which removes and restores powers, and had blended innovative and prodigious potions, such as the Tempus Duraturis Stregorum. For these and many more reasons, Sir Doyle was considered one of the most brilliant alchemists and astrologers in the history of magic. It was he who bequeathed to Abigore the most valuable title of Reader and Translator of Enchanted Signs. It was a title which many aspired to obtain, and for which Abigore was undoubtedly grateful, even if it had caused him much trouble and worry over the course of his long life.

Abigore didn't know why, but his uncle's portrait had always made him shudder. Maybe it was the grim colors, or the enquiring eyes which seemed to judge him with reproach and sternness. He had never liked that painting, not at all.

He stared for some moments at those hypnotic eyes. He had a strong feeling Doyle was about to tell him something, as if he wanted to share with him an oppressing secret. Maybe he wanted to warn his nephew of imminent danger. Or, more likely, Abigore thought, he wanted to criticize his miserable and incapable descendent who had become, against all expectations, the shame and disgrace of his family name.

Abigore sniffled and snorted bitterly at his forefather, lifting his chin in defiance. He fixed the crooked frame with the tip of his cane, then continued to hobble along the tight corridor which kept rising, descending, twisting, narrowing, and tilting as it became longer and more convoluted. Any common visitor would wonder what architectural genius had created such a useless gallery without doors, windows, openings, handles, locks, holes, nor fissures.

The only things that were plentiful in this place were the unbearable smell of mold that saturated even the walls, the webs which climbed everywhere like ivy branches, and the extensive collection of disturbing family paintings which roughly patched the bare tunnel as remnants of material patch-up a worn out dress.

This is just what a common visitor would see. A close and careful – very careful – look would reveal more secrets than one could imagine.

After what seemed to be an interminable time, Abigore finally arrived in front of a dusty and rough, grey stonewall. He brought his handkerchief to his forehead. Then, still panting after the wearisome walk, he stopped to listen. The excited voices of the Puddleclock brothers in the hall and the complaints of Mrs. Briggs, the old Indian governess who was stressing out in the kitchen over a turkey to be stuffed for dinner, were faint, as if coming from another house. Everything else was as quiet as usual.

Confused, he scratched his tangled grey hair. With some uncertainty he stroke the naked stone with his cane, hoping something would happen. Everything kept still and silent.

He moved the tip of his cane along the corners of the wall, pressing here and there, pattering up and down. He pulled, lifted, and pushed bricks, but the wall didn't budge.

"By the serpent's tongue!" he yelled, frowning. "And now? Where did this wall come from?"

Gastogne, who had been quiet all along, cleared his wooden throat and expressed – as any proper guiding cane should do – its personal opinion.

"One thing is sure, Sir Gammal... We're not on the wrong path!"

"Thanks a million! Even these dusty frames could tell as much!" commented Abigore, annoyed. "If you really must talk, give some useful advice! Go on! Tell me, before I use you as fire-wood, how can we get to the Hall of the Past with this heap of stone blocking our way?"

"Forgive my doubts, Master Gammal..." the cane timidly ventured to say. "Are you absolutely sure this wall was not here from the start?"

"What kind of question is that?" said the old man, outraged. "I might be old and sore, my dear Gastogne, but I'm not demented! Not at all." He took a swig of rum from the flask he had hidden in his breast pocket and wiped his lips with the sleeve of his worn-out cardigan. "Even if I haven't been in this hall in centuries, of course I'm sure of what I'm saying! The door should be here..." he said, feeling the stones with his trembling hands, "...here, somewhere... I'm positive," he whispered.

"Then, I'm afraid we're victims of an enchantment..." Gastogne inferred. "There's no other explanation!"

"Out of the question!" Abigore thundered. "No one has entered this house in centuries and this hallway is packed with spells to keep away meddlers and trespassers. Ask poor Mrs. Briggs. She was once chased for two days by a snarling bucket and a mad carpet beater."

"Hmmm..." Gastogne adopted a pondering expression. "Still, I can smell witchcraft," it said, sniffing the air like a dog hunting for truffles. "Tell me, Master Gammal..." he continued, keeping its nose close to the wall, "is the hall protected from spells too?" He hoped to solve the case and avoid a dangerous trip to the fireplace.

"Absolutely!" replied Abigore, with a look of satisfaction. "With a skillful enchantment... at least... given the means. Let me think... what sorcery have I employed?" The old man kept racking his brains while stroking his bearded chin. "So... it was..."

"A vanishing spell?" the talking cane preempted him.

"I said it was a highly respectable enchantment, not a charlatan's trick!" said Abigore, offended. "A vanishing... Tsk! Even a salamander sick with a cold could cast a vanishing spell. The one I cast was... was... a good one... how do you call it... a..."

"An Expellus Gentis?"

"No! It's not that either!" Abigore replied, annoyed. 

"Then which one?"

"The other one! It's obvious, no?" answered Abigore, against all reason.

Gastogne assumed a perplexed look. At this rate, they wouldn't be able to even open a can of string beans, much less a Hall of the Past.

"I got it!" the old man exclaimed, as his memory started to re- surface. "I used Concealing Varnish by Enchantress Garnish. The one you make by exposing chunks of volcanic rock to the light of the waning moon, with beetle dung and Malaysian turnip... um, no... What am I saying? I'm getting mixed up again!" he said with disappointment while he tried to squeeze the information out of his brain by pressing his temples with his index fingers. "That spell is for repairing the furnace! Pity! The spell of the Hall of the Past was... was... was a..."

"A PROTEXIS PORTUM!" yelled a desperate voice. "It was a Protexis Portum! Now stop this jabbering before my head explodes!"

Abigore turned around, wielding Gastogne as if it were a sword.

"Who said that?" he asked to the darkness. "I warn you, you're on private property. I strongly suggest you leave this place and vanish in a hurry before my alarm systems go off and you get thrown out the hard way."

"I accept your gratitude. Please don't mention it!" replied the voice, with sarcasm.

Just then, the bas-relief of an old, wrinkled face, complete with a doorknocker, emerged from the wall, yawning and spitting out pebbles.

"It's about time you came to see me!" the round, puffy face complained. "You don't know how boring life is down here! Nothing ever happens. Every day is the same!"

"I remember now!" Abigore's face lit up. "I called a custodian of stone!"

"Encouraging!" commented Gastogne, not too happy to hear it.

"Custodian, rejoice! Your tedious wait is finally over. I thank you for your faithful service and I relieve you from your burdensome charge" said Gammal solemnly.

At those words, the old man could only spit out some more plaster and stare at the two visitors without showing much interest.

"Um... as I said, custodian of stone, you're freed from your task. You can move this wall and show us the entrance way to the Hall of the Past."

"Not so fast!" exclaimed the old guardian. "All of a sudden I'm good for nothing, right?" he replied, hurt. "I'm sorry, but after so many years of loneliness I'm expecting something more than a simple thanks."

"I knew this would happen!" said the cane, beating its head against the wall. "Never, I repeat NEVER ask a custodian of stone to do something a tin-hearted knight can do for free, without any emotional involvement. But why am I even talking? No one listens to me."

"How dare you?" yelled Abigore, shocked. "Show me the hall, immediately, you insolent wall, or else Gastogne, my fearsome warrior, will turn you into a puzzle!"

"Who? Me?" asked the cane, in disbelief.

"Uh-oh... My doorknocker is shaking!" replied the custodian, brazen.

"This is absolute insubordination!" shouted Gastogne. "We'll file a complaint to the Exiled Wizards Committee this very day, my friend, and things will get ugly for you!"

"Yes, really ugly!" insisted Gammal, winking at the cane.

"Th-the Exiled W-wizards Committee?" said the man of stone, with a tremulous voice.

"You heard me!" confirmed Gastogne.

"But the exiled wizards haven't been able to use their magic in centuries!"

"You're wrong, stone head!" replied the cane, harshly. "And when they hear about your miserable behavior you'll end up like your old colleague Petronio. You remember Petronio, don't you?"

"No! Like Petronio? No!" the bas-relief begged.

"He came to a bad end, poor devil!" said Abigore.

"Yes, a bad, bad end..." echoed his wooden partner. "Bad and painful!"

"The stone grinder... the stone grinder! No! I beg you!" moaned the custodian, willing to do anything to avoid that terrible torture. "I was just kidding!" he explained, back to his right mind.

The brass door knocker moved back and forth three times, hitting the stone loudly. Then the wrinkled face went back into the wall, which split in two and disappeared between the ceiling and the floor, finally revealing the mysterious hall.

"By all the logs of thorn tree wood!" exclaimed Gastogne. "A true, legendary and magic Hall of the Past, completely... EMPTY!" With that, he banged its head again against a wall.

"Quiet, you cane of little faith!" Abigore reproved him. Pulling out a feathered pen, he started to write a list on a large dusty volume which had just appeared in front of their eyes.

Suddenly, the walls around them filled up with drawers and the ghost of a butler appeared, placing a bulging suitcase and four dirty brooms in the middle of the room.

"Master, it's a true honor to serve you again," said the butler with a sleepy voice. "Do you need anything else?"

Gammal thought for a moment, then decided to add one more item to his list.

"Better safe than sorry," he said, placing with his trembling hand the feather on the book. Immediately, the book vanished as quickly as it had materialized.

The ghost returned with a vial not larger than the palm of his hand, a book with a tattered cover, and a small jingling sack, closed with a draw string made with twisted grass.

"Very well, my dear Ortfried!" replied Abigore, mounting one of the brooms. "You may go now. We have everything we need!"

"We do?" asked Gastogne, surprised.

"Now..." Abigore continued, ignoring his assistant's comment, "we just have to pick up our guests and go to Nowhere Street!"

"On those?" asked the cane, concerned. "Not in a million years!"

"Don't worry!" said the man, reassuringly, donning some ridiculous pilot goggles. "Broom accidents are rare." He took one more swig of his aged rum, then added, "Deadly ones, at least!" Then he took off with a big laugh, ignoring the desperate screams of his wooden companion. His "vehicle" reared up, followed closely by the other brooms.

On his magic besom, the long and tedious corridor he had just trodden with much pain became for Abigore an exciting rollercoaster, with loops, twists, turns, and zig-zags... a load of fun!

"Ye-ha!" he cried out, euphoric, as he rode his enchanted tool with incredible skillfulness. "See? Broom flying is not so bad!"

"Well, they're not exactly like my nourishing oil baths, but I can get used to them," replied the amused stick.

To its relief, the infernal tour of death didn't last long. The brooms dashed through the corridor like lightning, arriving within minutes in the dining room where the Puddleclocks were enjoying Mrs. Briggs's delicious lunch.

"By all the pyramids of Egypt!" Bagus exclaimed excitedly. "Those are our brooms! I thought they had been destroyed centuries ago!"

"How long has it been since we last flew?" wondered Archibald, leaving the table and eagerly clutching the familiar handle.

"It seems like yesterday..." said Gustaf, wiping his chin with his napkin. "We were going to meet the great wizard Alagastor when..." he added, crushing the napkin until his knuckles turned white. "We never arrived at the castle. The army of ghostly demons caught sight of us and shot us down before we could even cross the threshold."

"Sh-shot d-down by an army of g-ghostly d-demons?" asked Gastogne.

"Good heavens!" the governess cried in alarm as she placed one hand on her mouth and one over her heart. "It's a wonder you're still alive!"

"Yes!" agreed Bagus, visibly moved. "But Alagastor and all the white wizards had no way of escape!"

"Enough of these thoughts!" Gammal reproved them. "Digging up the past can't help us solve this situation, right?" He grasped Bagus's shoulder. "I know... the memory is still vivid and painful. I lost some loved ones too at that time." His eyes glanced mournfully at his family picture hanging over the fireplace. "We have now a chance to settle the scores once and for all! Do we want to miss this rare opportunity?" he asked, remounting his broom and fixing his goggles, scarf and gloves. "I certainly don't!"

The brothers looked at each other, nodding.

"Abigore Gammal..." said Gustaf with a mischievous smile. "You should know us by now."

"Yes!" agreed Bagus. "You should!"

"We wouldn't miss the end of Pandèmiur Gobler for all the gold in the world," added Archibald, straightening his back like a soldier responding to a call to arms.

"Very well! That was exactly what I wanted to hear!" said Gammal, satisfied. "Let's not waste any more time, then! To the brooms!" He motioned Mrs. Briggs to open the large dining room glass door.

The four wizards and Gastogne rose from the ground and flew out of the window, leaving the poor governess in anguish.

"Master Gammal, remember to take your pills for your high blood pressure and your cholesterol... keep yourself warm..." she yelled, leaning over the railing, even if the wizard was now just a dot in the sky. "Evenings are cold and damp these days, up there in the clouds," she muttered, shaking her head in frustration as she closed the heavy glass door. "You could get sick on that broom!"

Gammal and his companions couldn't even think about sickness. On the contrary, the old wizards felt centuries younger, as they dashed from cloud to cloud on the cedar handles of their magic brooms.

"Look, Gustaf!" exclaimed Bagus, brimming with excitement. "Wouldn't you say I'm a five star pilot?" His broom took a nosedive in the middle of a large cloud, piercing it like a doughnut.

"That's kids' stuff," replied Archibald, minimizing his brother's exploits. "Watch and learn!"

He rose higher, almost to the point where the sky becomes pitch black, then descended at full speed, leaving behind him a colorful contrail of shiny dust.

Gustaf, Abigore, and Gastogne stopped to watch the friendly contest, clapping with exhilaration. Then, they all left again, rapidly moving toward their destination and enjoying the magnificent view of the city below.

"It's a breathtaking sight!" said Gustaf, thrilled. "I had almost forgotten how spectacular things look from up here."

"Yes!" confirmed Archibald, swerving to avoid a small flock of ducks. "It's amazing!"

London never looked as evocative at dusk. It seemed like a splendid lit miniature town.

"Prepare for landing!" said Abigore, diverting their thoughts. "We're almost there! Then we must continue on foot to the Now-Yes-Now-No Bridge." He started to land slowly, trying not to attract too much attention.

"Now-Yes-Now-No? What kind of bridge is that?" asked Gastogne curiously.

"You'll soon see, my friend!" replied Abigore, smiling, while he brushed the tip of his toes against the shingles of a sloping roof. "You'll see very soon!" Then he opened his suitcase to put away brooms, hats, and goggles.

With the help of the magic stairs of Bedor and the gloves of the Fog Fairy, which made them almost invisible, the four wizards descended undisturbed down the wall of the house where they had landed and proceeded carefully toward the northern bank of the Thames. There, they sat casually on a bench like some retired old men, and waited patiently for the last passerby to leave.

"All is clear!" Gastogne declared.

At those words, the grandfathers stopped feeding the pigeons, got rid of their papers, blankets, and chess boards, and moved quickly toward the channel.

"Well, here we are!" confirmed Abigore, rubbing his hands.

"I only see the great Tower Bridge!" said the cane, distrustful. 

"Don't worry, it's right here in front of us!" replied Bagus. "It's a special bridge. It only appears once in a while for those who have a ticket to go over."

"It's made specifically to regulate the access into the secret section of London," Archibald explained.

"But, if it's right in front of us..." asked the cane, like a curious child. "What are we waiting for?"

"Not what..." replied Abigore, "whom!" He knelt on one knee and opened the suitcase again. He took out a table bell and the small burlap sack the butler Ortfried had given him in the Hall of the Past. Then, he forcibly shook the bell. Immediately, a cheerful voice from underneath them caused them to jolt.

"Has anyone called Balthazar, the mad ticket clerk?"

"Um... yes!" replied Abigore, hesitant, addressing the patch of grass which seemed to be the source of the voice. "We urgently need to buy tickets to cross the bridge to the other side of London."

"May I know the nature of your travel?" the same voice asked courteously, now coming from behind their backs.

"Well... I'd say... it's work-related," replied Gammal, feeling a little uncomfortable.

"Work, eh? And what kind of work, exactly?" asked the voice, suspicious, now apparently coming from a garbage bin next to a lamppost.

"It's a delicate mat..." Abigore interrupted the sentence, annoyed. "Excuse me, Mr. Mad Ticket Agent, could I talk to you in person? You know, I feel a little stupid talking to a garbage bin."

"Um..." groaned the clerk, not fully convinced. "Well, then, if it means so much to you." With a sigh, he snapped his fingers on both hands.

Soon after that, a small eccentric man with carrot red hair and striped tights materialized on the branch of a great elm tree, just a few yards away. He was sitting at a small table with a desk lamp. "Forgive the mistrust, but these days one can never be too cautious. I'm sure you've heard," he said, lowering his voice and looking worriedly around, "the fearsome Gobler is planning his return, and this is not good news for us. Not at all... But now, back to our business..." He started to leaf through the pages of a large registry. "We were talking about crossing the bridge... Well, well, well... that will be... 125 starlins."

"125 starlins?" repeated Abigore, in disbelief. "But that's not possible!"

"Let me check then!" said the man, unflustered, now a few steps away from the water. "I'm afraid you were right!" he confirmed, after various computations on a calculator which had suddenly appeared in his hand. "I'm sorry. I forgot to include your cane. The total is 142 starlins and 23 gragols. Cash or magic checking?" he asked as he handed over five tickets with an inviting smile.

"But it's robbery!" yelled Abigore. "80 starlins! That's how much I'm willing to pay, not one starlin more!"

"Well, if you don't want to pay so much, no problem!" said the man, putting the tickets back in a desk drawer. "That means you can go to the other side with the ferry Who-Knows. It costs..." He moved his fingers rapidly on the calculator, "...exactly 80 starlins!"

"Grrr..." Abigore kept himself from using spells he would later regret and fished some money out of his burlap sack. "We'll take that! When's the next one?"

The ticket agent pretended he was checking his large registry. Then flashed again his irritating smile.

"Ah!" he exclaimed, slamming the registry shut. "Who knows?"

* * * * * * *

"142 starlins and 23 gragols!" Abigore crossed the Now-Yes-Now-No Bridge, cussing that trickster in tights. "But this is not the end of it, you two-bit salesman! Nossiree!"

"That's for sure..." agreed Gastogne. "I assume we'll have to pay the same amount coming back!"

All of a sudden, the cane felt the surly eyes of the four magicians fixed on him.

"Hey, look!" He distracted them, to soothe his uneasiness. "We're here!"

"Shadows Hill!" said Gustaf. His heart skipped a beat. This is where the Puddleclock brothers had lived for centuries before the Great Exile. "Everything is just like it used to be!"

"Splendid!" exclaimed Gastogne, electrified.

People dressed in odd looking clothes walked casually down the narrow streets, entering and exiting all kinds of small shops: Broom-Wash, for a quick cleaning of flying brooms; Potions & Lotions, selling ingredients for concoctions and charms; Fanta-Market, full of the strangest food items, magic travel agencies, selling magic umbrellas, shoes and chairs for any kind of transfer... and many more.

"We take the next crossroad!" advised Abigore, checking the address on the paper. "33 Nowhere Street! It's this," he said, stopping suddenly in front of a sign: "Great Barbershop ERNEST OF EXTRABILIA – fairy-like haircuts and charming wigs."

"Do you really think this is the time to get a haircut?" asked Gastogne, confused.

Gustaf patted the head of the cane. Without a word, he implied they should go inside.

The five partners found themselves in a typical barbershop, with armchairs for haircuts, shelves full of the strangest hairpieces, shampoos made from the rarest ingredients, scissors, combs and razors, all ready to be used.

"But there's no one here!" exclaimed Bagus, disappointed. "Maybe we're too late."

Abigore examined the arm of a chair and a piece of white fabric which hung off of it. He smiled, amused.

"Ernest, Ernest..." he said jokingly. "I thought at your venerable age you'd have decided to grow up and stop your juvenile pranks!"

The barber couldn't keep from laughing. He took off his magic wig and the chair turned back into a big hefty man with a thick head of black curls.

"Forgive me, Abigore... After centuries of inactivity, I couldn't resist the thrill of transformation!" he said, combing his locks and fixing his white coat. "You must admit, it was a pretty good disguise!"

"A first-class disguise!" replied Abigore, even if he had immediately recognized him. "I'm very glad to see you again, Ernest!" He took his hand and shook it vigorously.

"I'm very glad too..." said Ernest, sniffling and barely holding back his tears. "It's a privilege to be able to help. Please, follow me. There are many people who are just waiting to talk to you."

Ernest moved a tent, which had until then been a wall with small shelves, and excitedly took them to the back room. In that space full of lotions for the regrowth of griffin feathers, ointments for the care of dragon skin, wigs made of werewolf hair, and hats crafted with jellyfish pulp, new and old fellow wizards awaited their arrival.

"Am I mistaken, or-r... is that a d-dangerous G-Grok puppy on the leash?" asked Gastogne.

"It's them! They're really here!" The crowd came closer, euphoric, surrounding the visitors with an endless barrage of questions.

"Has the countdown really started? How much longer do we have?" asked a woman, her eyebrows set with colorful stones.

"Well, as far as we..." Gustaf started to reply, but couldn't finish.

"And Gobler... has he recovered his powers?" began another sorceress with shimmering hair. "He'll come to take revenge on us, won't he?"

"I imagine..." Even his second attempt to reply failed.

"Do we have a plan?" asked a young magician. "We're com..."

"And what about the great wizard Nobilius Kroon?" he kept asking, insatiable. "Those rumors about..." he hesitated briefly, "about his death, are they true?"

"Amethyst! Allegra! Tiber! Let them breath, for goodness' sake!" an elderly man dressed in a long coral colored robe reproved them. "Give them time to recuperate. My friends... please forgive this assault!" Ephron Oberon, long-time grand wizard of potions at Nobilius Alagastor Kroon's castle, hugged the colleagues, sincerely moved. "It's an immense pleasure to see you again. We were convinced you were dead!"

"Somehow we have been, at least... until a few days ago!" the wizard admitted, talking about the life of anonymity and lies they had been forced to live for centuries.

"Whatever you need, Gustaf, we're at your full disposal," said the long white-haired wizard. "You just have to ask."

"May Merlin's wand hit my forehead!" exclaimed someone in the back. "Bagus Puddleclock! It's really you, in the flesh, messy beard and all! Don't you still owe me a couple of goblets of Salem serum?" said the man who, dressed as a chimney sweep, pushed his way through the crowd, while waving his glass of viper-infused wine.

"Aster Ruggle, grumbling forgetful old oak!" replied Bagus, amused. "If I recall correctly, it's exactly the opposite!" The two wizards hugged, sharing some vigorous slaps on their back, then laughed as they remembered their long chats and equally long drinking sessions at Fetido Troll, the pub on the corner of Silver Bones Street. 

"Ahem..." The barber from Estrabilia cleared his throat and, assuming a serious tone, started to speak. "I'm very sorry I have to interrupt this happy moment, but it's time to focus on the matter which has forced us to meet today..." he said, as he paused and looked intensely at the group of wizards, "...the return of Pandèmiur Gobler... Master Gammal, if you would like to continue..."

With a gesture of his chubby hand, Ernest invited Gammal to stand in the center of the room, while wizards, fairies and pixies waited to discover, through an official magic translator, what and especially how serious the situation was.

"Um... well... yes..." said Abigore, drying his sweaty hands on his cardigan. "As you all must have heard... a mortal has broken Nobilius Alagastor Kroon's spell..." At those words, a long series of whispers filled the room. "This means that, after centuries of exile, the wizard Pandèmiur Gobler, and his proselytes might regain access to the mortal world."

"That's terrible!" cried the sorceress Allegra, whose hair had turned electric blue.

"How long before the black wizards regain their full powers?" asked Aster.

"Not long..." replied Abigore, extracting a huge dusty book out of his suitcase. "At the breaking of the Majesticum Caris Protex, there will first appear the signs..."

"The symbols that have materialized all around London," said Bagus.

"...the contrary time will flow again..."

"The countdown marked by Big Ben," said Archibald.

"...the white wizards will regain their powers and the Oval wind will blow once more. All the good exiled wizards, except those the wind has blown to the dark area of Dralon, will be able to come back to Shadows Hill."

"That's happened too!" said Gustaf.

"When the countdown is finished, the black wizards will regain some of their powers and will have access to the mortal world." "And Gobler?" asked Ephron, worried.

"If Gobler can regain his chimeria before the Oval stops blowing... he can leave the mirror where he's imprisoned and leave the Contrary World."

"Can't we go to Dralon and stop them before they attack us?" asked Tiber.

"Unfortunately, no! In this phase, no one can reach the Contrary World, except for the seven magical postmen or those authorized by Dralon's custodian."

"How much longer do we have, then?"

"If my calculations are right, only two turns of the clock's hands."

"Two turns?" yelled the wizards, panicked.

"But then it's the end! Let's surrender directly to Gobler and maybe we can avoid a useless war!" suggested Aster, feeling desperate.

"How could it have possibly happened?" a young autumn pixie wondered.

The muscles in Abigore's jawbone tensed automatically, as his eyes stared temporarily into nothing.

"SILENCE!" screamed Ernest. "I said silence!" He gently hit the Grok's back to encourage her to let out one of her frightening sounds. "Well!" exclaimed Ernest once the room was quiet again, "I see sweet little Doralise knows how to persuade you!" He tickled her wrinkled neck and let her lick his whole face with her long three-pronged tongue.

"Is there a way to stop the countdown?" asked Amethyst.

"If only we could have the enchanted treasures..." said Abigore.

"But we could never find them in time."

"Maybe the person who has broken the spell..." figured Bagus, "is able to help us."

"Yes! Too bad that right now we don't have the faintest idea of who and where this person may be!" said Archibald, losing hope.

"That's not entirely true," Ernest corrected him with a charming smile. "I think there's a way to find this information. Ogilay!" As the barber clapped his hands, a greyish-skinned man entered with a bird cage covered with a night blue cloth.

"TAH-DAH!" said Ernest, removing the cover like a waiter the lid on a dish. "Look who was pedaling through the enchanted underground chambers of Shadows Hill!"

"Frido Mortimer Grimalion!" roared Gustaf. "Of all the worst scoundrels in the world, you're the last one I ever imagined to meet!"

Inside the birdcage, the postman, now small as a rabbit, wiggled around confused and frightened.

"Isaiah Popper stopped him for a routine check, and Grimalion started to blabber about how he knows nothing about the events in the city, saying he wanted a lawyer..." explained Ernest. "Definitely suspicious! We encaged him and brought him here, waiting for an interrogation."

"I inocent! I shvear, Your Grace!" Grimalion said, in an agonizing tone of voice. "I do nutsink... nutsink bat. Pleaz belief!" He knelt down, crying profusely. "Let poor Frido out!"

"All in due time!" exclaimed Abigore, not at all moved by that scene. "All in due time. If you reply sincerely to our questions, I promise you'll be out of this cage without a scratch. But if you lie or try to hide anything, then..."

"No! No! I no lie. I promiz, sir!" swore Grimalion, walking on his knees to get closer to the wizard's face. "May fallink shtar hit me!"

"How did you get the clock?" asked Abigore, enraged.

"From kreat vizart!" replied the man.

"From Nobilius? Stop that nonsense!" exclaimed Ernest.

"I tell trues! Pleaz belief. Vith spell, clock goes from magik postman to magik postman. Efry year, one postman chozen to gif clock to vite vizart, und vite vizart keeps und protekts clock til next year, ja."

"And how did it end up in mortal hands?"

"Hmm... I... I... shtranger gaif orders..." replied the man, feeling increasingly nervous. "He said, 'You kif das pakage to zeese goot vizarts in London. You not speaken ov sekret mission to no one, or vitches vill get you.' I did not know zey ver mortal. Iz true!"

"A stranger, huh?" questioned Bagus. "And what did he look like?"

"I do not know, I shvear..." said the postman, placing his face between the bars. "Night dark. Person kovert, long mantle, big hat! I do not know how he lookt. I ask nutsink."

"And why did you accept this mission from a stranger?" asked Ernest.

"He sait goot für vizarts... sait families kan go bak home, und..." he paused, embarrassed, fidgeting with the cage's lock. "He gaif money... much money."

Isaiah, still wearing his magic police uniform, slammed violently a ringing sack on the table, shaking the cage.

"I found this in his bag: 1720 dralons, 50 lunars and 27 starlins!"

"By all the wizard's hats!" exclaimed Aster, waving an almost empty wine glass in the air. "A pretty good sum, no question about it. I propose we celebrate this memorable encounter with a good toast to Fetid Troll..." he continued, rubbing his hands. "Of course, it's all on Grimalion!"

"Where did you leave the clock?" asked Abigore, getting back on track.

"I gaif pakage to shtrange family" he replied eagerly. "I knew sometsink wrong!"

"Where do they live?" asked Gustaf, somber.

"Zey lif... zey lif in London!"

"Where in London and what are their names?" asked Gustaf, sha- king the cage like a maraca. "Go on, speak!"

"Lif in Bromley... 13 Kroks Pot. Name iz..." he staggered. "Bofer... no... Sorbet... nee..."

"Abigore..." said Gustaf, restless. "Would you like to help our friend regain his memory?"

"With great pleasure!" The wizard took a long wooden wand out of his suitcase and started to shake it in front of the trembling postman.

"No... I remember... I remember!" cried Grimalion, desperate. "Name is Moffet! Zis family name... I shvear... family Moffet!"

"See? That was not so hard!" said Bagus.

"Well... now that we know who has the clock, what do we do?" asked Ernest.

"First of all, we need to stop Gobler from regaining his magic powers and from leaving the Contrary World," said Abigore.

"We'll take care of that!" said Gustaf, determined. "Even if we can't destroy Gobler's chimeria, at least we can stop him from regaining them."

"So, do you know where they are?" asked a likeable old lady with flashy lipstick smudged over her lips, a handkerchief on her head and a mangy cat in her arms.

"Malinda Gravestone, you don't look one century older!" said Archibald, bowing to kiss her hand.

"And you, my dear Archibald, are the same gallant wizard you've always been," she replied, flirting, as she twirled a lock of grey hair with her fingers.

"Back to your question, Malinda..." continued Gustaf, trying to ignore their mawkishness, "no, we don't have the faintest idea where they could be."

"Maybe... maybe I kan help..." the postman dared to say.

"Do you know where they're hidden?" asked Abigore, surprised.

"Chenerally, kimeria kept by magik relatif..."

"As far as I know, Gobler has no live descendants" Abigore informe him.

"On dark side," said Grimalion.

"Do you mean to tell us that one of Gobler's relatives is still alive and is a white wizard?" asked Abigore, more excited than ever.

"Aktually... two: one vite vizart, one mortal. Bos in London," the hug man replied.

"And you know who they are, right?" asked Abigore.

The postman nodded. After searching his pockets, he placed a ticket in the wizard's hand.

"For sure, Gobler sent evil blak vizart to distant relatif to take bak his kimeria."

"Ogilay!" shouted Ernest, satisfied. "Our guest has been very helpful. Now you can take him to the other room. He has a right to a good warm meal and a nice rest!"

"But I no vant to eat!" yelled the postman while Ogilay was taking him away. "Und no vant to shleep! I vant to gooooo!"

"Now follow me!" said Ernest, leaving the group. "For this delicate mission, you'll definitely need help..." He opened a huge closet full of hundreds of enchanted wigs, all different. Some were made with golden threads, some with barley fibers and pitch, some with the hair of the nose of an ogre with a cold, some with wild birch dipped in the mud of Gullit's bewitched pond. "You'll need these to be unnoticed. Go ahead! Don't be shy..." he encouraged them, pushing them toward the closet. "Choose whichever you like! Consider it a modest gift from your trusted barber," he said, bowing respectfully.

"Thank you so much, Ernest. We don't know how..."

"Tut-tut-tut!" the barber interrupted, with tears about to swell in his eyes. "No thanks needed. This is the least I can do for you."

"Malocchio and I will immediately start looking for the Moffet family!" said Malinda, slamming her broom handle on the floor.

"I'll send Grimalion to the exiled wizards in Dralon, to inform them of what's happening," added Isaiah.

"In the meantime, we'll prepare for battle!" thundered Ephron.

"Very well!" exclaimed Abigore, as he looked at the pile of enchanted wigs to find one that would fit him best. "Now, we just have to get going!" He looked at the Puddleclock brothers, letting them know his decision to follow them was final.

"Come on, Gastogne!" Bagus called. "It's time to get back to our travels!"

"I'd love to come," replied the cane, stuck between the Grok's teeth. "Maybe you should first convince this sweet monster to take her sticky three-pronged tongue and canine teeth off me."

"I've a better idea!" yelled out Ernest, loosing the leash and giving it to Bagus. "She could come in handy. She's still a puppy but can already stand her ground against an enemy. You can take her with you!"

Bagus held the leash tightly and looked at the large wizard with grateful eyes.

"Doralise..." said the barber, bending down to the animal. "You have to be good now, and protect these gentlemen..."

"And this cane," added Gastogne, promptly.

"You must protect these gentlemen... and this cane from any danger," corrected the barber, lifting his eyes to the sky. "You must risk your life to defend them. Do you understand?" He then blew his nose, now as red as a tomato, with the edge of his coat.

His pet wagged her tail with excitement. She rushed to the door and crouched on the mat, moving her eyes back and forth from Ernest to the knob, eager to finally go for a walk.

"Be cautious!" Ernest reminded them, concerned.

"Don't worry!" Gustaf reassured him. "We'll find the chimeria and defeat Gobler once and for all. That's a promise!"

Ernest shook his hand firmly and opened the door.

The four wizards, Gastogne, and the Grok puppy left the magic barbershop on Nowhere Street and walked away without turning back.