When the man spoke his voice was gentle, but whatever he said was in another language, and Ward didn't understand it. Like a cornered animal he looked to his left, towards an open door through which he could see a green lawn and some bushes and a peculiar spidery machine from which hung, incongruously, clothing. The nines came back over. They began to snuffle at his pocket, and he felt Fidelma quiver against his stomach. He pushed the searching noses away.

Then the man was shooing the nines out into the yard. When they were both outside he closed the back door. One of the nines scratched at it and whimpered.

The man came back. He said something else.

"Thanks for putting the nines out," Ward tried.

"Nine?" the man parrotted.

Ward pointed at the back door. "Nine," he said. Then, in case his meaning wasn't clear, he said "woof." He grinned. He couldn't help it. This was all too absurd.

The man laughed. It sounded frightened and relieved. It was good to hear him laugh – reassuring to know the man was as scared as he was.

The man said something else and pointed at Ward's pocket. Ward shook his head. No, he couldn't see what was in his pocket.

The man said something slowly then – slow enough for Ward to make out a couple of words.

"From?" he repeated. The word meant nothing to him, but he thought he should try at least. The man said something else, but too fast for Ward to make out. Then he left the room.

While he was gone Ward examined the newspaper (if it was a newspaper) on the table. The pictures were less like paintings than argotypes, now that he looked at them closely – though he had never heard of colour argotypes.

The man returned. He sat at the table beside Ward and began to draw on some paper he had brought back with him. The paper had faint lines on it. Curiously, the man didn't seem to require ink to make the pen work.

He frowned and lifted the pen, clearly dissatisified by what he had drawn. Nevertheless, Ward could tell what it was.

"Nine?" the man said.

Ward nodded, and held his hand out for the wondrous pen. The man gave it to him. Ward wrote nine on the paper next to the man's picture. When he was done he looked the pen over carefully. He could see the ink now. It was trapped inside the pen itself. Ingenious. He went to write hello in his own language, then changed his mind. He wrote in the Old Language instead:

The Cat in the Hat

He looked up at the man, who gave him a sympathetic, somewhat patronising smile. Few people in Ward's world could write at all, yet this man seemed to think he was an idiot for trying.

The man said something else.

"Is?" Ward said. It was the only word he had caught.

The man took the pen and wrote on the paper: What is your name? Just as Ward had suspected, it was in the Old Language. He tried not to think about what this might mean. Where he was. Except among a handful of Hattoist scholars, the Old Language hadn't been used for centuries.

"Ward," Ward answered.

How old are you? he wrote.

"Thirteen," Ward said in his own language. Then he saw the blank look on the man's face, and translated onto the paper.

"Thirteen," the man said.

Ward had never tried to pronounce any of the words he had read in his books. He hadn't thought to do so. Why would he? Who would he talk to? But he tried to say this word now.

"Churr-teen."

The man smiled and shook his head. Ward's dislike of him deepened.

"Thurr. Thurr-teen."

"Thurr. Churr-teen." Ward couldn't say this word. It was too hard. He knew he had to do something with his lips when he spoke, but he didn't know what. Were all words in the Old Language like this?

Chanks for thoosing to read my thtory. Muth apprethiated.