Instinctively, they all turned to glance up at the looming bulk of Arthur’s Seat, the hill in the middle of Edinburgh that looks for all the world like a sleeping dragon. Over the years, the MacLeans had learned many of its secrets, including the fact that the interior of Arthur’s Seat was home to the MacArthurs, a little people — you can call them faeries if you like — whose adventures had, on several occasions, involved them in the affairs of witches, magicians, dragons and goblins.
“Yes, do that, Neil,” nodded his father as he turned the key in the lock. “Send them back and mind and say thank you!” He pushed the door open against the pile of post and newspapers that had collected in the few days of their absence. “Sir James won’t need his carpet again, either,” he added. “He left his car here, remember?”
His wife turned to the tall, elegantly-dressed man who was trying vainly to smooth creases from the trousers of his best suit. Although he enjoyed flying on magic carpets, they had, Sir James reflected, their disadvantages and being open to the elements was one of them. It had been a long flight from Lord Rothlan’s estate at Jarishan and he felt sadly crumpled and in need of a hot bath.
“I love flying on the carpets,” he muttered, “but there’s a lot to be said for using magic mirrors. It’s quicker for a start and you don’t get blown to pieces.”
“Look on the bright side, Sir James,” Neil said, watching the magic carpets become invisible again as they soared over the garden wall towards the green slopes of the hill. “At least it didn’t rain!”
“You’ll come in and have a cup of tea before you go home, won’t you, James?” Janet MacLean offered, untying the scarf that she’d wound round her dark hair. “We all need something warm inside us.”
“Yes, do have some tea with us, Sir James!” urged Clara. “We’ve got so much to talk about! It was a fabulous wedding, wasn’t it?”
They wandered into the kitchen where Mrs MacLean, still in her coat, filled the kettle.
“Didn’t Lady Ellan look beautiful? She made a lovely bride,” her mother remarked, taking mugs out of the cupboard. “And Lord Rothlan is so handsome. Really, I felt quite tearful.”
“Well, they’ll be in their new palace in Turkey by this time,” the Ranger said.
Mrs MacLean smiled a trifle ruefully. “I wouldn’t have minded a palace as one of my wedding presents,” she said. “The Sultan’s very generous, isn’t he?”
“He’s been generous to us all, one way or another,” smiled Sir James. “Think of the presents he’s given us and the lovely holidays we’ve had in Turkey.”
“And I wouldn’t worry too much about not having a palace, Mum,” grinned Clara. “Just imagine how long it would take to clean a hundred rooms!”
“It’s a pity we couldn’t have gone with the MacArthurs, though,” Neil muttered enviously. “They’ll be having a fabulous time at the Sultan’s palace.”
“Yes, but we could hardly have gone with them, Neil,” his mother said reasonably. “Your dad has his work to see to and your half-term holiday is over already. You’ll be back at school tomorrow.”
“The Sultan will invite us again, Neil, don’t worry,” his father said. “He’ll always be grateful to us for getting his crown back.”
“Your dad has a point,” smiled Sir James, picking some newspapers out of the pile of junk mail that the Ranger had brought in. He flicked idly through the headlines and then stiffened in horror. “Good heavens!” he gasped, “there’s been a fire at The Kings!”
They looked at him in alarm as he unfolded The Scotsman and showed them the headlines. “A fire!” said Neil in horror. “At The King’s Theatre?”
“James! Your pantomime! What on earth will you do?” asked Mrs MacLean, looking distressed.
“When did it happen?” Clara asked. “The theatre didn’t burn down completely, did it?”
Sir James shook his head as he scanned the report. “It happened …” he looked at the date on the paper, “it must have happened the day before yesterday. It hasn’t burned down but there was a lot of damage inside … mainly to the stage!” He lowered the paper and looked at them seriously. “If what this says is true then it looks as though Ali Baba might not come off after all. It’ll be a real blow to Children’s Aid if we have to cancel it!”
“Sir James, you can’t cancel it!” cried Clara. “I mean … what about Matt Lafferty?”