‘As far as we can ascertain,’ Scamandros continued, ‘Spirit-eaters have only been raised on a handful of occasions in the whole history of the House. A Spirit-eater is a potent and unpleasant type of Nithling created to assume the identity of someone, either Denizen or mortal. Its chief power is to cloak itself in an exact likeness of its target, and it also has the ability to extrude its mentality into those around it, whether they be mortal or Denizen –’
‘What?’ interrupted Arthur. ‘What does “extrude its mentality” mean?’
‘I’m not too certain … apparently once a Spirit-eater has done it, though, it is able to control its victims’ minds and read their recent thoughts and memories. It does this in order to further its deception. Initially it will have only the usual, exterior knowledge of its target, so it seeks to learn more from the target’s confidants and fellows.’
‘You mean it’s going to mentally take over my family?’ Arthur spilled his orange juice as he stood up in agitation. ‘How long will it take to do that?’
‘Yes, that is … I suppose that is what it will do,’ said Scamandros. ‘Though I don’t know how.’
‘How much time would it need?’ asked Arthur. This was the worst thing, his family being in danger. He remembered the two Grim’s Grotesques breathing their foul breath of forgetting over his father; how he had felt in that awful second as that fog had rolled over his dad. Now his whole family was threatened again, and he was stuck in the House. They would be defenceless.
I have to help them, Arthur thought desperately. There has to be something … someone …
‘A few days, I think. But I cannot say for certain,’ said Scamandros.
Arthur looked at Leaf. She met his gaze.
‘I guess you’re thinking what I’m thinking,’ she said. ‘You can’t go back or the whole world goes kapow. But I could go back and try to get rid of this Spirit-eater.’
‘I don’t know,’ said Arthur. ‘It sounds very dangerous. Maybe Monday’s Noon could –’
‘No interference!’ boomed Dame Primus. ‘Remember the Original Law! The mortal may return to whence she came, but no others may sully the Architect’s work.’
‘I think it’s more than a bit sullied already,’ said Arthur crossly. ‘How come it’s all right for the bad guys to do whatever they want, but whenever I want to do something it’s “forget about it”? What’s the good of being the Rightful Heir anyway? All I get is trouble!’
Nobody answered Arthur’s question, and he noticed everyone was not quite looking at him – and no one was telling him to behave himself. He felt suddenly weird, and wished that somebody would just say, ‘Shut up, Arthur, we’ve got work to do.’
‘Is it possible?’ asked Leaf. ‘To get rid of the Spirit-eater, I mean.’
Arthur and Leaf both looked at Scamandros. The tattoos on his face showed some anxiety, picturing shaky towers that were being built up stone by stone, only to fall down as the last course was laid.
‘I think so. But it would require finding the item used to create the Spirit-eater in the first place. That will be something personal from its target, overlaid with spells. In this case, something of yours, Arthur, that was close to you for quite a while. A favourite book, or a spoon, or perhaps some piece of clothing. Something of that order.’
Arthur frowned in puzzlement. What could he have lost that could be used in this way?
‘When would this have happened?’ he asked.
‘It would have taken more than a year of House Time for the Spirit-eater to be grown from Nothing,’ replied Dr Scamandros.
‘A year … How long has it been since I was given the minute hand by Mister Monday?’ Arthur asked. It was only the previous week for him, but much longer in the House. ‘In House Time, I mean?’
‘A year and a half,’ replied Dame Primus stiffly. She had the Agenda open and was tapping it with a gold pencil. Every time she tapped, one of the items on the list moved up or down, or to some unseen page deeper in the volume.
‘It must have been Monday’s Fetchers,’ said Arthur. ‘Or maybe one of Grim Tuesday’s Grotesques. But I can’t think of anything really personal that I’ve missed.’
‘You could enquire of the Atlas,’ said Dame Primus. ‘You still hold the Third Key, so the Atlas will answer.’
Arthur took the Atlas out of his pocket, set it on the table, and held the small trident that was the Third Key with his right hand. But he didn’t start concentrating on a question to ask the Atlas. After a moment, he put the Third Key down, the trident’s tines pointing to the hollow centre of the table.