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‘Oh!’ cried the priest. ‘Praise be! He
has
found them . . .’

‘Yes, and if you can persuade him to show you round, then you must let him. We have never intruded as a brotherhood, because it seemed wrong – he’s a nervous child. But –
as I told you – I found myself climbing down through the spigot and, suddenly . . . I was in one of the chambers. Years ago I could have got back the way I’d come in, but . . . I
suppose I gave in to temptation and sought the easier path. The way through Tomaz’s home and out of the door was a simpler option.’

‘Which is why young Tomaz made the door rather smaller,’ said a monk and there was laughter again.

‘Now it’s like a rabbit hole.’

‘Will you finish the story?’ said Father O’Hanrahan. ‘Did you see the sword or not?’

‘By coincidence, I did,’ said Brother Rees.

‘It was not coincidence,’ said another. ‘It was the Lord’s doing.’

‘It was ordained,’ said another. ‘You’re quite right.’

Brother Rees took over again. ‘Who knows?’ he said. ‘We will argue about that until Doomsday. The important thing was that I saw it. I went through Tomaz’s lounge and
he’d left it out. I admit I inspected it. As far as I could tell, the stones are in place – that was the geologist in me again, I’m afraid. I said a prayer – and I left. So
to answer your final question,
is it beautiful
? Well. Its beauty is concealed. The impure can never bear true perfection, so the stones are covered.’ He smiled. ‘But the sword
has come home, Father, and that boy is one of its guardians.’

Father O’Hanrahan thought he might sob. Hope and frustration churned his entrails and he was giddy. ‘You say it is in its rightful place . . .’ he whispered.

‘We do,’ said the monk to his left. ‘It is. Ribblestrop Towers.’

‘But. If I understand you . . . I’m sorry, this is astonishing news, to be told everything at once like this. If I understand you correctly, it is in a cave. And the cave is the . .
. dwelling of this little long-haired fellow – this Tomaz – a little foreign orphan from nobody quite knows where. He broke into the chambers used by Vyner – himself a criminal
– and is fooling about with the plunder. Selling wine at knockdown prices and goodness only knows what else! The sword of St Caspar, therefore – which must surely belong in the church
– is in the care of a thieving child. We must remove it from him!’

‘The sword,’ said Brother Rees, ‘is where it should be. I can see we’re going to differ on this point, but hear me out, Father. The sword comes from Jordan, and tradition
says it was blessed by St Caspar as a sword of healing and reconciliation. Traditionally, it brings peace, to lost individuals and—’

‘I don’t need a history lesson! I need the sword!’

‘And you’re not familiar with the rhyme, I take it?’ said Brother Martin. He had returned with a plate of cheese and was chewing thoughtfully.

‘What rhyme?’ said Father O’Hanrahan.

‘I used to have it by rote,’ said Brother Martin. ‘Something about a tiger . . .’

‘I can remember it,’ said another voice. ‘I’ve always thought it very pretty:

He stopped.

‘Sorry, I’ve lost it. I know there’s a river running . . .’

Another voice took over, lower and stronger. The temperature dipped, though only the monks noticed. They drew their robes a little tighter and did not look at the one who spoke, from the
shadows. It was a low, heavy voice. It was as if whoever spoke had difficulty forming the words:

‘Tomaz is not a thief,’ said Brother Rees. ‘He is a custodian. And we will protect him.’

‘I don’t understand.’

‘I’m sure you don’t,’ said Brother Martin. ‘But let’s have some broth, before you go.’

Father O’Hanrahan was on his feet. He had spied a passageway behind Brother Rees, half concealed by an old curtain. He clicked his torch back on and shouldered his satchel.

‘Oh no,’ he said. ‘You can sit chuntering all day. You can eat your broth till you burst! I’ll find the damn thing myself . . .’

‘How’s it feel to be back?’ said Millie.

‘Good,’ said Sanchez. ‘It feels like I was never away.’

‘The film went down a storm. The little ones thought it was magic. They cried when you disappeared.’

Sanchez smiled. ‘You haven’t asked me about my mother.’

Millie hesitated. ‘I know. I suppose I never really understood what you were doing. It was her . . . birthday? But she’s dead.’

‘It’s just tradition. You don’t stop having a birthday party just because someone’s died. You have it at the graveside.’

‘With presents? With a cake?’

Sanchez smiled again. ‘We have food, yes. We give each other presents. The main thing is you just sit with your mum. Keep her company.’ He looked at Millie. ‘Did you see your
parents at all?’

‘No. Easter’s the next meeting. Maybe.’

Sanchez paused. ‘Do you miss Colombia?’ he said.

‘Yes,’ said Millie. ‘I think about the mountains. The horses. But I suppose the best thing . . .’

‘What?’

‘Wow.’ Millie laughed. ‘I was about to say something really nice to you, then, and I just managed to stop myself.’

‘In that case, I won’t say what I was going to say.’

‘Deal.’

It was evening. The children sat in a blaze of candles in the cathedral home of Tomaz. Like the headmaster, he’d found it impossible to pull the Christmas decorations
down – the orphans had made them so lovingly. Shards of mirror hung on a thousand invisible threads. Nightlights had been laid along the fissures of rock and the mirrors threw their flames in
a slowly turning cosmos of tiny stars. They’d painted tree branches white and positioned them with such skill that the grotto took on the magic of a fairy-tale forest. If the snow queen was
out there with little Kay, and if Girda was still searching, she might pass at any moment. The children lay back in their seats, hot and fat. The wood-stove blazed and they fanned themselves as
Tomaz stirred the embers with the poker. The feast was done. His moussaka had been rich, his salad cool.

Bottles of wine were moving rapidly up and down the tables, most children heaping sugar into their glasses and stirring vigorously. They all found the Clos de Beze way too dry, though with
chilled lemonade it was refreshing. Tomaz had no fridge, but an underground spring kept essential items ice-cold.

Why an underground feast? Why the celebration? They needed no excuses – most evenings were celebrations of some kind. But this one formally marked the return of Sanchez. It marked the
arrival of Imagio and the six baby panthers. It marked a football game that would never be forgotten or surpassed, and another overnight snowfall with a refreezing of the lake. Millie suggested
they should celebrate the recent disappearance of Father O’Hanrahan, who had not been seen for two days and two nights, but nobody else felt as cruel.

Sanchez said to Millie, ‘What do you think of Miles, by the way? Are you glad you brought him back?’

‘He’s harmless enough. I can’t make up my mind. He’s funny, but he’s such an attention-seeker.’

‘I guess you don’t like attention-seekers?’

Millie narrowed her eyes. ‘Let me ask
you
something – and this is serious. Did you write to him over Christmas?’

‘No.’

‘Have you ever written to him?’

‘No.’

‘He said you did, you know. And I saw you kiss him, on the football pitch. If something’s going on, you ought to tell me, Sanchez.’

‘Millie,’ said Sanchez. ‘You spent three weeks in South America – we kiss everyone.’

‘You didn’t write to him?’

‘You are such a little English girl, sometimes. What does a kiss mean? Are you jealous of him?’

‘Hi.’

Oli had appeared behind Millie, with a cigar in one hand and a candle in the other. He presented the cigar to her and waited until she leaned in for a light. Three puffs later, she said,
‘Thank you, Oli. An ashtray and you’re dismissed.’

The little boy walked off and Sanchez stared, expressionless. ‘You still amaze me,’ he said. ‘You still take such advantage, every time.’

‘Sanchez, it’s the first time that boy’s been truly needed. A child like that is born to serve.’

‘Is it true he brings you breakfast every morning?’

‘Every morning, nice and hot.’

‘Ruskin told me. I couldn’t believe it. He’s the cleverest kid in the school and you treat him like a slave.’

‘It’s a deal we struck. And he’s a lot less geeky than he was – just like Sam. My mission is to help these boys become useful human beings . . . So Miles is really a liar
– I did know it. Why isn’t he here?’

‘He’s with Caspar. They’ve become friends again.’

‘I thought they hated each other.’

‘Yes, they do. And then they don’t. You don’t understand Miles at all, do you?’

‘Are you sure you didn’t write to him?’

‘And he really bothers you, doesn’t he? He wrote to me twice, if you want to know. They were weird letters, they were . . . You don’t know how lonely he is, alright?’
Sanchez took the cigar and inhaled, long and deep. ‘I should have written. But I’ll tell you something about Miles,’ he said. ‘He is actually incapable of telling the truth.
He lies all the time, by accident. Half the things he says, you can pretty much guarantee are a lie.’

‘He told me about a game you used to play. His “favourite game”.’

‘We played football. Scrabble, I think – which he cheated at. Conjured a ghost . . . I’m not sure what his favourite was.’

‘He said it involved a gun. He called it his “favourite game” and asked did I want to play.’

Sanchez sat up.

‘Millie, if that boy came near a gun, it would be time to run away very, very fast.’

‘He was telling Tomaz too—’

‘He’s past all that. That was last term and I told him he had to stop.’

‘Stop what?’

‘All that stuff about games. He’s happier now, you can see it.’

Millie went to speak, then changed her mind. ‘He’s special to you, isn’t he?’

Sanchez looked at her. ‘Yes, of course. He’s a special guy.’

Millie frowned.

She wanted to tell Sanchez about the conversation up on the tower. She wanted to unload and was almost prepared to risk Sanchez’s fury when she brought up the gun. But at the same time she
didn’t want to break the mood they’d created. The cigar smoke smelled so old and wise – she would never admit it was making her feel sick. Once again she was torn between weakness
and strength. Oli brought the ashtray and the moment passed as he leaned between them.

‘How’s my submarine?’ said Millie, hugging him to her. ‘You were going to build me the best submarine in the land.’

‘Mmm,’ said Oli. ‘I’ve made progress. We had a maiden-voyage yesterday, but the radio signals were being interfered with. It’s watertight, but I’m not sure .
. .’

He faltered. There were raised voices at the end of the table.

‘I can’t hear you,’ said Millie.

‘I’m not sure what depth we can go to.’

Sanchez was standing up. There seemed to be an argument raging and a flurry of angry hands. ‘It’s just not on! It’s not on at all!’ cried a high-pitched voice.

It was Ruskin and he was surrounded by the littlest orphans. He broke free of them and moved swiftly to Sanchez, choking back a sob. ‘Hold me back, Sanchez!’ he was saying. ‘I
can no longer be held responsible . . . this is an outrage!’

‘What?’ said Sanchez.

Asilah was on his feet too and the smaller orphans looked very crestfallen.

‘It’s the wretched, blasted bank!’ cried Ruskin. ‘I thought it was all sorted out, but they’ve just told me I have no credit left and I can’t have a
chocolate! I am the only person who put money in and now they won’t let me take it out again.’

‘Ruskin,’ said Sam. ‘If you want a sweet, I can lend you money!’

It was the wrong thing to say. Ruskin clutched his head and shouted: ‘I do not want your money! I do not want anybody else’s money! I want mine!’

He plunged into a chair and put his face on the table. A young orphan put his hand on the boy’s shoulder and Sam sat down next to him.

Asilah spoke curtly in his own language and the younger orphans all started talking at once. One held a file of papers and another the abacus.

‘I knew this was a bad idea,’ said Millie. ‘Money and children: a recipe for disaster.’

It was true that the school bank and tuck shop had become remarkably complicated. The orphans that ran it had learned arithmetic with record-breaking speed. Now their arithmetic had mutated into
interest calculations and profit projections. Eric’s younger brother had been at the helm – a sweet-faced boy of six by the name of Kenji, who’d spent two years of his life
sweeping the floor of a bank in Western China. In between sweepings, he’d read financial news papers, and he now looked after all the children’s accounts as credit-controller. His team
carried the tuck shop around, erecting it in corridors, classrooms – anywhere the children went. Right now they were selling homemade chocolates for a penny each or three for two, or five for
three with a free gift and loyalty card for ten. The children ate them with the thick coffee that Podma was cooking.

‘How is it I have no money?’ moaned Ruskin. ‘The only one . . . Thirty pounds I put in!’