“Firedrake?” Twigleg brushed the sand off his jacket. “Who’s that? A friend of yours?”
“None of your business, midget,” spat Sorrel, and she stood up. “Thanks for the help, one good deed is worth another and all that, but our ways part here. Come on,” she said, pulling Ben to his feet. “We’ve had enough of a rest.”
Twigleg bowed his head and sighed deeply. “Right, you two go your own way!” he whispered. “I understand entirely. I expect the vultures will eat me now. Yes, I expect that’s what they’ll do.”
Ben looked at him in consternation. “But where do you come from?” he asked. “Don’t you have a home? I mean, you must have lived somewhere before they caught you.”
Twigleg nodded sadly. “Oh, yes, but I don’t want to go back there ever again. I had a master who made me work day in, day out, polishing his gold, doing handstands, telling stories till my head was in a whirl. That’s why I ran away. But I have such terrible luck. No sooner had I escaped my master than a raven picked me up and carried me away. It dropped me from its claws last night in the storm — and where did it let me fall? Right above the camp we’ve just escaped from. Such terrible, awful luck. I always have rotten luck.”
o;Okay, calm down,” said Ben, investigating the lock of the cage. “I’ve been here for ages, but how could I do anything while they were standing around wondering whether or not you’re a monkey?”
“One of them did know what I was,” hissed Sorrel through the bars. “I don’t like that at all!”
“Do you really come from Scotland?” asked Ben.
“Mind your own business.” Sorrel cast him an anxious glance. “Well, can you get that thing open?”
Ben shrugged his shoulders. “I’m not sure. It doesn’t look easy.” He took his penknife out of his pocket and stuck the point into the lock.
“Hurry up!” whispered Sorrel, looking around in alarm. Luckily there was still no one to be seen among the tents.
“Most of them are down on the beach looking at what you left of Firedrake’s tracks,” murmured Ben. “Oh, bother, this thing is impossible.”
“Excuse me, please!” someone suddenly said in a timid voice. “If you get me out of here I might be able to help you.”
Ben and Sorrel turned around in surprise. The homunculus was standing close to the bars of his cage, smiling at them.
“As far as I can see, the lock on my prison here is an easy one to pick,” he said. “They probably thought a simple lock would do because I’m so small.”
Ben glanced at the lock and nodded. “You’re right, this one will be easy.” He took his knife and was applying it to the lock when Sorrel grabbed his sleeve through the bars of her cage.
“Wait a moment, not so fast!” she hissed. “We don’t know what kind of thing this is.”
“Oh, nonsense.” Ben shook his head impatiently. With a sudden jerk, he cracked the lock of the homunculus’s cage, opened the tiny barred door, and lifted out the little man.
“My most grateful thanks!” said the tiny creature, bowing low to the boy. “Pick me up and hold me steady in front of the other lock, will you? I’ll see what I can do for your bad-tempered brownie friend.”
Sorrel gave him a nasty look.
“What’s your name?” asked Ben curiously.
“Twigleg,” said the manikin, putting his spindly fingers into the lock of the cage and closing his eyes.
“Twigleg!” muttered Sorrel. “Suits you.”
“Could you please keep quiet?” said Twigleg without opening his eyes. “I know brownies enjoy a good chatter, but this isn’t the right moment.”
Sorrel tightened her lips. Ben looked around. He could hear voices — some way off still, but coming closer.
“Quick, Twigleg!” he told the homunculus. “There’s someone coming!”
“Nearly done it,” replied Twigleg. The lock clicked. With a satisfied smile, the little man removed his fingers. Ben quickly put him on his shoulder and opened Sorrel’s cage. Muttering crossly, she jumped down into the powdery sand.
“Twigleg,” said Ben, carrying the homunculus over to the sad monkey’s cage, “could you pick this lock, too?”
“If you like,” said the homunculus, setting to work.
“What’s he doing?” hissed Sorrel. “Are you two crazy? We have to get away from here.”