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  Thrace flinched for a moment, and Micah had to stifle his cries as the end of the broomhandle scraped against his ribs. But then, as Eli slowly and surely eased the broom from her grip, the pain subsided and was ­suddenly gone.

  ‘That’s it … that’s the way …’ Eli soothed as he steered the kingirl away from Micah’s sackmattress and over to her own. ‘This way, Thrace …’

  Micah sat up again and looked across at them, watching their every move as Eli, one hand gripping her arm and the other supporting her back, laid Thrace gently down. Her head rolled to one side and, for a moment, her gaze met Micah’s: fierce, beautiful, but bewildered, and lacking any recognition.

  ‘She’s still asleep,’ Eli whispered.

  Micah nodded uncertainly. He swallowed. Then, as he continued to watch, Thrace’s eyelids seemed to grow heavy and the stern expression melted away. She closed her eyes. Micah swallowed again. He looked up at Eli.

  ‘Does she really hate me that much?’ he whispered.

  Eli stooped down to gather up the makeshift lance and the lamp. ‘She don’t hate you, lad,’ he said.

  Micah shrugged. ‘You sure about that?’ he said, looking down at the growing bruise on his chest.

  Eli crouched down next to him. He glanced at Thrace, whose breathing was now deep and even, then back at Micah.

  ‘You gotta understand, lad, that it ain’t easy for Thrace. Deep down inside she’s more troubled than she could ever admit to either you or me – or even herself.’ He shook his head. ‘When she’s asleep, she’s back with him, heeding his words, doing his bidding. Like I told you before, Micah, lad, the ties of kinship cannot be undone …’

  ‘But … but Aseel’s gone,’ said Micah. ‘He left her. He abandoned her …’

  ‘And maybe they’ll never see one another again,’ said Eli, nodding. ‘But I tell you this,’ he added, resting a hand on Micah’s, ‘and it’s something you’d do well to ­remember; Aseel will live on inside that kingirl till the day she takes her last breath, and there ain’t nothing you nor I nor no one else can do about it. It’s something you must simply accept.’ He patted Micah’s arm, then climbed to his feet. ‘You sleep on now till m—’ He paused, and his stubbled features creased into a grin. ‘Till I say it’s morning.’

  Micah watched Eli as he climbed to his feet, shifted the lamp from his left hand to his right, and disappeared into the adjacent chamber. He turned his head and looked at Thrace. She was still asleep, her soft lips parted and dark eyelids unmoving. He heard a soft clatter from the main chamber, a breath of air, and Eli’s light was extinguished.

  Micah sighed and laid himself back down. He reached up and touched his chest, his fingertips gingerly seeking out the bruise. It was tender, but no real harm had been done. The stabbing pain in his heart was ­different, though. Micah feared it would never stop hurting.

  Buy Bloodhoney Now!

  A Biography of Paul Stewart and Chris Riddell

  Chris Riddell and Paul Stewart lived curiously parallel lives before they met. Both went to South London grammar schools in the seventies, moved to Brighton in the eighties, and had children in the nineties. They have sons, as well as daughters, who are the same age. Paul and Chris could have met at any point during these years.

  As a schoolboy, Chris played rugby on school playing fields directly behind Paul’s childhood home in Morden, a suburb of London. In 1982, both of them attended a gig in Brighton by an obscure post-punk band called Young Marble Giants. The band didn’t show up and Paul might have been standing behind Chris in the queue for refunds. They can’t be sure. They also both spent the summer of 1987 in New York with their wives, though strangely, in a city of eight million people, they didn’t run into each other.

  But one thing is certain. After years of almost crossing paths, the two finally met at the gates of the Early Years nursery school on the Ditchling Road while picking up their two-year-old sons.

  Chris was born in Cape Town, South Africa, in 1962, and was immediately whisked off by his parents to live in a succession of large, bitterly cold vicarages in remote corners of England. His career as an illustrator began in a church pew in Bristol where, each Sunday during his father’s sermons, he would draw pictures of fire-breathing dragons and knights getting their heads cut off in exchange for winegum candies fed to him by an elderly member of the congregation, Mrs. Stock.

  Twelve years later, Chris turned down a place at an ancient university and enrolled in a foundation course at a small art school in Epsom, Surrey. His parents were remarkably understanding, but his headmaster never forgave him. A year later, riding a Vespa and wearing a secondhand Italian suit, he arrived at Brighton Polytechnic where he would study illustration.

  Several years after that, Chris found himself in the offices of a London publisher, trying to get a commission based on his portfolio of giant charcoal drawings. Through clouds of black dust, the kindly publisher asked him a life-changing question: “Do you have any stories?” That night, in his artist’s garret in an unfashionable part of Southeast London, Chris tried to figure out if he had any stories. It wasn’t easy, but he began to write picture-book texts, which he illustrated, and persuaded the publishers to buy them (with money rather than winegums).

  Some time later, for reasons that never became clear, the Economist employed Chris to draw political cartoons. He thinks this may have been due to the advanced socioeconomic theories contained in his picture book The Trouble with Elephants. Whatever the reason, Chris went on to become the political cartoonist for British newspapers including the Independent and, most recently, the Observer, a post which he still holds.

  At around this time, Chris had a number of frustrating experiences illustrating other writers’ stories. He found himself wishing that he could advise them against including characters with names like Hushabye Brightwing, and instead introduce a fire-breathing dragon in chapter thirteen. Then, complaining about his busy schedule and moaning about egotistical writers, Chris went to pick up his son, William, from nursery school …

  Paul was born in 1955 and brought up in Morden (or “Morden Likely,” as one graffiti artist named it), a beige neighborhood at the end of the underground line in Southwest London. After years of trying to climb through his wardrobe and into another world, Paul decided that stories would be a better means of escape. He read avidly and, inspired by some of the authors he loved, started to write. Then, at the age of eighteen, he ran away to a retreat in the wilds of Yorkshire, where he developed a lasting interest in hillwalking and potholing.

  After he had completed a BA in English at Lancaster University and an MA in creative writing at the University of East Anglia, where he studied under renowned writers Malcolm Bradbury and Angela Carter, Paul’s first short story, a retelling of Hans Christian Andersen’s The Snow Queen called “Ice,” was published. Elated by this success—and the resulting fifty-pound check—Paul decided to travel, and took the Magic Bus to Athens.

  He soon discovered that there was a whole world out there, and spent the next few years on the road—in the Greek islands, picking grapes and whitewashing hotels; in Heidelberg, Germany, teaching English and learning German; in Colombo, Sri Lanka, where he developed a taste for hot curries and eating with his hands. Kenya. Australia. India. Thailand. The United States … And everywhere he went, he recorded his experiences in notebooks, in diaries, and on the reams of paper that passed through his Olivetti Lettera 32. It was on this portable typewriter that he wrote what was to be his first novel for children, The Thought Domain.

  After his years of travel, Paul decided to settle down and, in an effort to prove that it hadn’t all been a waste, made use of some of those experiences. He moved to Brighton and set to work. Paul turned his hand to all kinds of books, both fiction and nonfiction: soccer stories, puzzle adventure books, fantasy novels, and collections of short stories, plus a true account of an ill-fated 1955 trek that sho
uld have taken its protagonists from Nairobi to London, but instead led to tragedy in the Sahara.

  In addition to writing, Paul was teaching English as a second language. He was married in 1989, and his teaching days came to an end in 1990 when his first child was born.

  Instead of returning to the language school, he stayed at home to look after his son—and continue writing. It was going well, although sometimes he suspected his illustrators of not having read the texts. One afternoon, his latest book arrived from the publisher. The character on the cover, described in chapter one as having “long fair hair,” had been drawn with a dark brown crewcut. Complaining bitterly about illiterate illustrators, Paul went to pick up his son, Joseph, from nursery school …

  Since then, Paul and Chris have produced over thirty books together. These include the Rabbit & Hedgehog series; the award-winning Far-Flung Adventures; the TV-adapted Muddle Earth books; the critically acclaimed Barnaby Grimes novels; the bestselling Edge Chronicles, and, of course, the three books that they consider their best to date: the Wyrmeweald Trilogy.

  Paul at one year old in 1956.

  Chris at age four (second from left) with his siblings, Lynn, Stephen, and Bradley, in 1966.

  Twelve-year-old Paul (middle row, second from left) with his first rugby team at Mitcham County Grammar School in 1967.

  Six-year-old Chris (back row, fourth from right) at Westbury Park Primary School in Bristol in 1968.

  Chris’s father outside his old church, St. John-on-the-Wall, in Bristol in 1967. During his father’s sermons, Chris would draw pictures in exchange for winegums.

  Paul at twenty-four on a beach in Greece in 1979.

  Paul in Heidelberg, Germany, in 1980. His travel typewriter, the Olivetti Lettera 32, went everywhere he did.

  Chris at nineteen at Brighton Art School in 1981.

  Paul working at his Olivetti Lettera 32 in his home in Brighton in 1986. He was writing The Thought Domain at the time.

  Chris and his wife, Jo, on their wedding day in Norfolk in 1987.

  Paul and his wife, Julie, at the Brighton registry office where they were married, in 1989.

  Chris drawing with his newborn son, William, at his home in Brighton in 1989.

  Chris and Jo in New York in 1988.

  Paul and his children, Anna (two months old) and Joseph (three years old), in 1993.

  Chris with his daughter, Katy (two years old), at their home in Brighton in 1995.

  Chris (at left) and Paul (at right) at the Edge Chronicles’ million-sales party at the Royal Society of Arts in London in 2005.

  All rights reserved, including without limitation the right to reproduce this book or any portion thereof in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2010 by Paul Stewart and Chris Riddell

  ISBN 978-1-4804-1515-7

  Published in 2013 by Open Road Integrated Media, Inc.

  345 Hudson Street

  New York, NY 10014

  www.openroadmedia.com

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