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“Oh, young master, because, because …” stammered Twigleg, trying to free himself from Sorrel’s grasp, but no matter how hard the manikin twisted and turned the brownie girl held him tight.
“That’s stumped you, right?” she growled.
“Let go of me, you furry feline!” squealed Twigleg. “How can I explain anything with you squeezing me like this?”
“Come on, let him go,” said Ben. “You’re hurting him.”
Reluctantly Sorrel put the homunculus down on the sand.
“Thanks!” muttered Twigleg. Looking injured, he straightened his jacket.
“So, why didn’t you say anything before?” repeated Ben.
“Why didn’t I say anything? Because of her, of course!” Twigleg pointed a trembling finger at Sorrel. “I know she wants to be rid of me. So, I hid in the backpack. And after that,” he added, rubbing his nose and giving Sorrel a nasty look, “after that I kept quiet because I was afraid she’d throw me into the sea if she found me.”
“Not a bad idea,” growled Sorrel. “Not a bad idea at all.”
“Sorrel!” Ben dug his elbow into the brownie’s ribs. Then, looking concerned, he turned to the homunculus. “She’d never do that, Twigleg. Honestly. She’s very nice really. She just acts like she’s so … so …” He glanced sideways at Sorrel. “So hard-hearted all the time, see?”
But Twigleg did not seem convinced. He gave Sorrel another suspicious look. Sorrel responded with a scowl.
“Here.” Ben pushed a few crumbs of pita bread toward Twigleg. “You must be hungry, aren’t you?”
“My humble thanks, young master, but I, er …” Twigleg cleared his throat, embarrassed. “I’ll just catch myself a few flies.”
“Flies?” Ben looked incredulously at the manikin, who shrugged his shoulders awkwardly.
“Flies! Yuck, putrid panther-caps!” said Sorrel. “Sounds just like you, you spider-legged fairy-ring champignon!”
“Sorrel!” snapped Ben. “Stop it, will you? Twigleg’s done nothing to hurt you. Okay? He freed you from that cage, remember?”
“Oh, very well.” Sorrel turned back to her mushrooms. “All right, I promise I won’t throw him into the sea. Happy now? So let’s think about the question you’re going to ask the djinn with the thousand eyes. After all, that’s why you woke me up.”
“Okay.” Ben nodded and took a crumpled piece of paper out of his pocket. “I’ve written down a few ideas. Listen.”
“Just a moment,” Sorrel interrupted. “Do we want the manikin to hear this?”
Ben groaned. “Here we go again! Why shouldn’t he hear it?”
Sorrel looked Twigleg up and down. “Why should he?” she replied tartly. “If you ask me, as few ears as possible ought to hear our question.”
“I’m off, then,” said Twigleg. “Don’t mind me. I can be gone in a moment.”
But Ben held him back by his jacket. “You’re staying here,” he said. “I trust you. And I’m the one who has to ask the question. Right, do I finally have your attention, Sorrel?”
The brownie rolled her eyes. “Just as you like. But you’ll land us in trouble, trusting him like that. I’d bet my mushrooms on it.”
“You’re nuts, Sorrel,” said Ben, “totally nuts.”
Twigleg sat on Ben’s knee, hardly knowing where to look. He had often felt small and worthless, but never as small and worthless as he did now. He was so ashamed of himself he felt like confessing everything to the boy then and there, but he couldn’t utter a word.
“Right, how about this?” said Ben, smoothing out his paper. “Where — is — the — Rim — of— Heaven — hidden? Seven words exactly.”
“Hmm, not bad,” growled Sorrel. “Sounds kind of funny, though.”
“I’ve got another one.” Ben turned the piece of paper around. “Seven words again. Where — does — the — Rim — of — Heaven — lie?”
Quietly Twigleg slipped off Ben’s knee and took a couple of steps backward.
