say. Fergus was again doing his startled-fish impression, and Beryl was pointing one long, bony finger at her, trying to speak but failing. Her parents were looking at her in stunned surprise. Only Skulduggery Pleasant moved, walking behind her and gently touching her arm.
'Congratulations,' he said, and moved on toward the door. As soon as it clicked shut behind him, Beryl found her voice.
'Her?' she screamed. 'Her?'
Chapter Three
Little Girl, All Alone
THAT AFTERNOON STEPHANIE and her mother made the fifteen-minute drive from Haggard to Gordon's estate. Her mum opened the front door and stepped back.
'Owner of the house goes first,' she said with a little smile and a bow, and Stephanie stepped inside. She wasn't thinking of this house as her property; the idea was too big, too silly. Even if her parents were, technically, the custodians until she turned eighteen, how could she own a house? How many other twelve-year-olds owned houses?
No, it was too silly an idea. Too far-fetched. Too crazy. Exactly the kind of thing that Gordon would have thought made perfect sense.
The house was big and quiet and empty as they walked through it. Everything seemed new to her now, and Stephanie found herself reacting differently to the furniture and carpets and paintings. Did she like it? Did she agree with this color, or that fabric? One thing that had to be said for Gordon: He had a good eye. Stephanie's mother said there was very little she would change if she had to. Some of the paintings were a little too unnerving for her taste, maybe, but on the whole the furnishings were elegant and understated, exuding a class that befitted a house of this stature.
They hadn't decided what they were going to do. Any decision to do with this house was left up to Stephanie, but her parents still had the villa to consider. Owning three houses between them seemed a bit much. Her father had suggested selling the villa, but her mother hated the thought of letting go of a place so idyllic.
They had also talked about Stephanie's education, and she knew that conversation was far from over. The moment they had left Mr. Fedgewick's office, they warned her not to let all this go to her head. Recent events, they had said, should not mean she could stop studying, stop planning for college. She needed to be independent, they said; she needed to make it on her own.
Stephanie let them talk, and nodded occasionally and muttered an agreement where an agreement was appropriate. She didn't bother to explain that she knew she needed college, knew she needed to find her own way in the world, because if she didn't, she'd never escape Haggard. She wasn't about to throw her future away simply because she was going to come into some money.
She and her mother spent so long looking around the ground floor that by the time they got to the bottom of the stairs, it was already five o'clock. With their exploring done for the day, they locked up and walked toward the car. A first few drops of rain splattered against the windshield as they got in. Stephanie clicked her seat belt closed, and her mother turned the key in the ignition.
The car spluttered a bit, groaned a little, and then shut up altogether. Her mother looked at her.
'Uh-oh.'
They both got out and went around to the front and opened the hood.
'Well,' her mother said, looking at the engine, 'at least that's still there.'
'Do you know anything about engines?' Stephanie asked.
'That's why I have a husband, so I don't have to. Engines and shelves, that's why men were invented.'
Stephanie made a mental note to learn about engines before she turned eighteen. She wasn't too fussed about the shelves.
Her mum dug her mobile phone out of her bag and called Stephanie's dad, but he was busy on-site and there was no way he could get to them before nightfall. They went back inside and her mother called for a mechanic, and they spent three quarters of an hour waiting for him to arrive.
The sky was gray and angry, and the rain was falling hard by the time the truck appeared around the corner. It splashed through puddles on its way up the long drive, and Stephanie's mum pulled her jacket over her head and ran out to meet it. Stephanie could see a great big dog in the cab of the truck, looking on as the mechanic got out to examine their car. After a few minutes, her mother ran back inside, thoroughly drenched.
'He can't fix it here,' she said, wringing out her jacket on the porch, 'so he's going to tow it to the garage. It shouldn't take too long to fix.'
'Will there be room for both of us in the truck?'
'You can sit on my knee.'
'Mum!'
'Or I can sit on your knee; whatever works.'
'Can I stay here?'
Her mother looked at her. 'Alone?'
'Please? You just said it won't take long, and I'd like to have another look around.'
'I don't know, Steph .
'Please? I've stayed on my own before. I won't break anything, I swear.'
Her mother laughed. 'Okay, fine. I shouldn't be - any more than an hour, all right? An hour and a half at the most.' Her mother gave her a quick kiss on the cheek. 'Call me if you need anything.'
She ran back outside and jumped into the cab, next to the dog, who proceeded to slobber all over her face. Stephanie watched their car being towed off into the distance, and then it vanished from sight.
She did a little more exploring, now that she was on her own. She climbed the stairs and went straight to Gordon's study.
His publisher, Seamus T. Steepe of Arc Light Books, had phoned them earlier that day, passing on his condolences and inquiring about the state of Gordon's last book. Her mother had told him that they'd find out if Gordon had completed it, and if he had, they'd send it on. Mr. Steepe was very keen to get the book on the shelves, certain that it would crash onto the bestseller list and stay there for a long time. 'Dead writers sell,' he had said, like he approved of Gordon's clever marketing ploy.
Stephanie opened a desk drawer and found the manuscript in a neat stack. She pulled it out carefully and laid it on the desktop, careful not to smudge the paper. The first page held the title, nothing more, in bold lettering:
And the Darkness Rained upon Them The manuscript was thick and heavy, like all of Gordon's books. She'd read most of them and, the odd splash of pretension aside, had quite enjoyed his work. His stories tended to be about people who could do astonishing and wonderful things, and the strange and terrible events that invariably led up to their bizarre and horrible deaths.
She noticed the way he would set up a strong and noble hero and, over the course of the book, systematically subject his hero to brutal punishment in a bid to strip away all his arrogance and certainty, so that by the end he was humbled and had learned a great lesson. And then Gordon killed him off, usually in the most undignified way possible. Stephanie could almost hear Gordon laughing with mischievous glee as she read.
She lifted the title page and carefully laid it facedown on the desk beside the manuscript. She started reading. She didn't mean to spend long at it, but soon she was devouring every word, oblivious to the creaking old house and the rain outside.
Her mobile phone rang, making her jump. She had been reading for two hours. She thumbed the answer button and held it to her ear.
'Hi, sweetie,' came her mother's voice. 'Everything okay?'
'Yes,' she answered. 'Just reading.'
'You're not reading one of Gordon's books, are you? Steph, he writes about horrible' monsters and scary stuff and bad people doing worse things. It'll give you nightmares.'
'No, Mum, I'm . . . I'm reading the dictionary.'
Even the brief silence from the other end of the phone was skeptical. 'The dictionary?' her mother said. 'Really?'
'Yeah,' Stephanie said. 'Did you know that popple is a word?'
'You are stranger than your father, you know that?'
'I suspected. ... So is the car fixed yet?'
'No, and that's why I'm calling. They can't get it going, and the road up to you is flooded. I'm going to get a taxi up as far as it'll go, and then I'll see if I can find
