Grandma's Attic

Chapter Seventeen

Thredwyl lay as still as the Stone that he was and scarcely breathed. With him less than half the size of a Hobbit – whatever one of those was – they'd easily miss him beneath the carelessly discarded bath towel. He honed his ears. But the densely fluffy fabric muffled all but the loudest of sounds – the creak of an opening door. And now they were near. Thredwyl squeezed his eyes tight.

"I know what you're saying, Dwayne," said a hard-edged voice. "But the little wretch must be here somewhere."

Nix nay, I'm not, I'm not, Thredwyl pressed himself yet further into the floor, trying to make himself insignificantly small. If only he still had his magic, he could magic himself smaller than the glitter, trodden in from Daisy's room, that speckled the floor.

"But I tell you," said another voice (Dwayne?), "I know the family, and if Fleur says the little fella's gone and run off, then the little fella's gone and run off. I mean, just look at that hutch back there, all broken and—"

"Yeah, and since when have big bazookas been a guarantee of honesty?"

Thredwyl wanted to nod but had to keep still. Even so, if Fleur had spun a misleading lie to keep him out of Anthropology clutches – by the cringe, that's an amazement – then he owed Fleur a deed in return.

But that hard-edged male wasn't easily duped. He sounded determined to find Thredwyl. Like he wouldn't give up searching till he'd pulled every seed out of Thredwyl's 'doings', and likely he'd enjoy it too, the nasty male-Man. He was probably tall, and thin, and all sharp angles, with a beak for a nose. One of the professor's personal servants, without a doubt. Drat. Triple drat.

Thredwyl quietened his breathing, quietened his thoughts.

Footsteps...leaving the bathroom. Two came in, two gone out. The door clicked closed.

By Grandma's Grimy Knickers.... Thredwyl let out his held breath and gasped in another. Gone. He was safe – at least for now.

He started to move, a slow push-up, a slow raise of his bum.

Slam.

"Ouch! This Kupie has stones, you know." Pointless holding quiet now with that granite-slab of a shoe pinning him down. As if the male wouldn't know the difference between fluffy towel and squashed Thredwyl.

"Dwayne," the male called out, no release of pressure on Thredwyl's delicate parts.

The door wheezed open. Footsteps. Dwayne's re-entry.

"Here, just plonk your foot here. Not that hard – we don't want him damaged. A rarity, this."

Thredwyl was grateful for the reprimand, if tardily applied. He wanted to curl around his maltreated maleness, to hold it...them, to shield them, protect them from further abuse. But that mountainous boot still had him pinned.

And what were they doing? He could hear unfathomable movements and metallic clicks.

"How much are you giving him?" Dwayne's outraged voice rapidly rose in pitch. Anyone would think they were his own stones so brutally stood upon.

"Have to make sure," said the harsh-voiced male, probably the professor's most dangerous servitor. "We don't want him escaping in transit. Out there amongst the bushes, he'd be devilishly difficult to find."

A muted pop sounded.

"Hey!" Dwayne squeaked.

And several things happened at once.

The clod's heavy weight lifted.

A thud sounded loud in Thredwyl's well-muffled ears accompanied by a gust of midden-scented air.