We decide taking a nap before meeting the witches would be wise, and when naps are involved, everyone’s naturally up for it. Mr. Om and See fall asleep before their heads hit the straw-mattress we’ve got in the carriage. I yawn. I can see all of us have been waiting for this.

All but one.

‘Aight,' says Rasthrum. ‘Gimme my stones. We’re nearly there.’

My stomach's fundic region knots up. This is happening. This is really happening.

But this has to be done. I poke Aar, who’s already deep into his exotic dreams. He giggles.

'Psst!’

He starts to mumbles. 'Pretty . . . ayuh.’

Bee perks up. I give her an abashed, helpless look.

‘Wake up! Come on, pal!’

‘Choo so pretty . . .’

I roll my eyes. He’s definitely dreaming of the Grahi Witch. I never should’ve mentioned her beauty.

I poke him harder in the stomach.
Aar giggles again, squirming like the jelly-men back at Cellomann's. Mumbles: 'Pretty Bee . . .’

So it isn’t the Grahi Witch that he’s dreaming of after all.

I look at Bee. She’s blushing. I’ve never seen her blush before. It’s a sight worth remembering. I take a mental photograph of her nerdy, rosy cheeks.

‘Choo-choo . . . choo-choo . . .’

I’m about to poke Aar again, when Rasthrum intervenes. He puts a single finger right at the center of Aar's forehead and nudges it forward ever so slightly.

As if on spring, Aar jumps into sitting position. His eyes are wide ajar, and – as I’ve told you a dozen times before – he’s an expressive guy, so you can clearly see him trying to register the situation as he looks from face to face.

Bee averts her eyes, trying her best to let the color in her face settle down. I can’t repress a smile. This is too mushy to ignore.

Finally, Aar's eyes resolve on me. ‘What happened?’

‘Nothing happened,' I answer. ‘Rasthrum here would like to get paid.’

Aar groans. Then grunts. Then slaps himself. Then nods.

Moments later, we find ourselves chatting with the tall vampire-survivor guy with a hideous face and a 17th century carriage for good measure. What a character.

Aar produces the four rotten-heart shaped stones from somewhere inside his burlap shirt. Rasthrum makes to seize them, but Aar The Negotiator claps on his hand. ‘Nuh-uh,' he says. ‘Not so fast.’

It is Rasthrum's turn to groan and grunt.

Aar beams. ‘We decided two-thousand for each stone. That makes it eight-thousand for four. Correct?’

Groan. Grunt. Grumble.

'Now, this trip here cost us four-thousand and five-hundred boxing’s of Leckleys. We agreed on that.’

‘Leckles,' rectifies Rasthrum.

‘Whatever. That means if you wanna buy all of our stones – which I’m pretty sure you do – then you owe us a sum total of three-thousand and five-hundred Leckles. Pay up, Scarface.’

I gape at Aar, who drops a wink at me. I hadn’t even thought of this. Reaching the witches and confronting them was the only thing occupying my already-condensed brain.

Rasthrum grunts. Groans. Grumbles. Goes to a corner of the carriage and comes back with a big, double-zipped bag. ‘I ain't got enough money, kid,' he says.

'Then we ain't got no deal,' Aar mimics. He’s good with copying accents and voices, I’ll give him that. Perks of being an actor.

Rasthrum stares at him, as though wondering if he was being mocked, then deciding it didn’t make any difference. He unzips the bag, reaches into it, starts rummaging through.

There’s a glass jar full of eyes just lolling about in there, another pyriform flask of what I suspect to be more Craige Rooster blood, a compass with ornate dials, a vial of silvery strands of smoke – double-coiled, ever-shifting smoke, you know, like DNA (don’t ask me the full-form) – a dagger with brownish fibers in the place of a handle (I wonder how that works), a capped test-drive filled with red, flaky liquid and yada yada yada.

In the end, Rasthrum borrows a bronze shuriken from the bag. You know shurikens? The star-shaped metal thingies that ninjas use? Yeah, those. I’ve never seen one in real life. Well, now I have.

‘This,' Rasthrum declares, 'is worth at least five-thousand boxings. Now, normally I won’t give away anything as valuable as this, but I’ve decided I like you kids, especially after hearing your story last night.’

He looks right at me when he says the last part. It’s a genuine look, I can tell. No, this isn’t a man trying to dupe us. This is a man trying to help. Why, remains a question.

Aar doesn’t see that. He takes the shuriken in his hand, weighing it. ‘What’s so special about this?’

Rasthrum's ugly lips twitch. Even through the scarf over the lower half of his face, that much is obvious. ‘That right there is a weapon against those witches. The only weapon that can kill them once and for all.’

‘Looks pretty normal to me,' says Aar.

‘We’ll take it,' I say.

'What, why, Scarface here’s trying to fool us - '

'Aar. I know what I’m doing.’ I stare at Rasthrum. ‘We’ll take it . . . if you tell us, honestly, why you are helping us out.’

‘Money,' he says briefly.

I stare harder.

‘Aight,' Rasthrum resigns. ‘I’ll tell you. I got my personal reasons for providing you aid.’

There is a short but heavy silence.
I push. ‘Well?’

Rasthrum draws a deep, rattling breath. ‘Don’t hold it against me, kid. I am her son.’

I gasp.

Aar looks bamboozled, if that’s the appropriate word. ‘Will someone tell me what’s happening here? Who's whose son?’

I am still trying to process the information myself. How could this be –

Rasthrum explains: 'The Grahi Witch, kid. She’s my mother.’