Is by Joan Aiken

nothing. A zero. A cipher. A duck’s egg.’
    ‘Just as I figgered!’ said Is in triumph. ‘Just a Banbury story to fetch the kids in.’
    ‘I suppose you could say that.’ Again her great-grandfather wore his look of unease. But it cleared when he cocked his head and said in relief, ‘Ah, now I hear the footfall of your Aunt Ishie. What a comfort that she has come home. She, without doubt, will be able to explain everything you wish to know. And will be able to decide what it is best for you to do.’
    Hurrying as fast as he could in his loose slippers along the passage, he called, ‘Ishie! Ishie! Can you come in here a moment, if you please? We have here a most unexpected visitor – your great-niece from the south country, Desmond’s daughter.’ And he gave a mumbled explanation.
    To Is, the first sight of her great-aunt Ishie was a severe disappointment. The person who now hobbled into the kitchen was very odd-looking indeed: quite short, hardly as tall as Is herself, and dreadfully lame, so that she was obliged to hoist herself along with a sideways, crablike motion. She dragged behind her a kind of sledge, or box on wheels, which it seemed she used when she went out for transporting either herself or her belongings. She was quite remarkably plain, with a backward-sloping forehead, no chin to speak of, and large bulging eyes like those of a hare. She was also amazingly filthy – covered in grey dust from head to foot, all her long trailing grey clothes furred with greasy slate-coloured powder, as was the kerchief over her head.
    But her voice gave Is another surprise, for it was warm, clear and sensible.
    ‘My niece from the south country. What an unexpected pleasure! But here I am, as you see, quite unfit to receive company. Give me ten minutes to step up and make myself presentable – or, better still – ’ as she seemed to pick up some inaudible plea for help from old Mr Twite, ‘or better still, my dear, why do you not accompany me upstairs. For you will be needing somewhere to sleep, and can be settling your self in your own quarters while I tidy my self.’

    Is therefore followed Aunt Ishie up three remarkably steep flights of stairs, necessarily at a very slow pace.
    ‘The rooms on the first floor are let to Dr Lemman,’ explained Aunt Ishie, somewhat breathlessly, as they passed two closed doors. ‘He is a very clever medical gentleman, quiet in his habits, and out a great deal of the time on his rounds, which suits your great-grandfather very well. Father Lancelot is on the second floor, and you, my child, may have the attics all to yourself. I am afraid it may be rather dangerous for you in this part of the country – has your great-grandfather gone into that at all?’
    ‘No, missus. He said you’d explain everything .’
    ‘Oh dear, did he? (Call me Aunt Ishie, my love, do. I am, I suppose, your great-aunt, but we will waive the great.) Now, this is my little territory – ’ opening a door on the third floor, ‘and I will just step in and make myself fit to be seen. You may continue on upwards and take possession of your own quarters. Come down again as soon as you choose, my love, when you are quite established.’ And she vanished behind the door.
    Is climbed the last flight – which was very steep indeed, almost a ladder – and found two tiny rooms with sloping ceilings, facing each other across a narrow strip of landing. She looked out through each window in turn. One faced into a rocky, heathery hillside, the other commanded a wide prospect, down across the network of valleys so confusingly jumbled with ruined houses, mills, warehouses, viaducts, and skyward-pointing chimneys and dyehouse towers. Far in the distance high, snow-covered mountains reared up like sharks’ teeth against the dark grey sky. And down to the left, beyond the massed chimneys, lay a faint dark horizontal which might perhaps, Is thought, be the sea.
    But where in all this cold, deserted, mutilated