Mabel Jones and the Doomsday Book by Will Mabbitt

Author:Will Mabbitt
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Penguin Young Readers Group
Published: 2016-09-26T22:24:47+00:00

Then he fastens her tutu with a neat bow.

“We wouldn’t want it slipping off, Ursula, would we? Not on our big day. Now, remember what we’ve practiced. Land, curtsy, then fly off.”

And, as the Grand Zhool’s bread crumb offering drifted in the wind, Wilkinson threw Ursula into the air.

Ursula flew high and out above the sea, then circled around to land gracefully at the Grand Zhool’s feet.

The Grand Zhool turned to the crowd.

“Behold! St. Statham has sent us his sacred seagull!”

The crowd clapped politely.

Ursula made a perfect curtsy.

The Grand Zhool raised his hands to the sky.

“Behold! The seagull has shown its deference to me, the Grand Zhool!”

Ursula turned around and prepared to fly off.

At the back of the crowd, Wilkinson removed his cap and wiped the sweat from his wrinkled brow. His life’s work was complete. It was notoriously hard training seagulls, but he had done it.

No. He shook his head. They had done it. Him and Ursula. Together.

Then it happened.

Just as she left the ground . . .

Just as she prepared to make her triumphant flight back out to sea . . .

Just as the Grand Zhool was preparing to leave . . .

Ursula did what seagulls do best.

The Grand Zhool looked down in horror at his poo-spattered feet.

He turned to Govvel.

“Fetch the seagull trainer!” he boomed.

Inside the barrel, Mabel Jones felt Jarvis wriggle uncomfortably.

“I can’t see,” he whispered. “Let me have a turn.”

Mabel kept her eye to the hole. She had a feeling something dreadful was about to occur. Maybe it was better if Jarvis didn’t see.

The Grand Zhool glared at the crowd as it parted to make way for Wilkinson the greyhound. He was held firmly between two of the Grand Zhool’s Personal Guard.

They threw him to the hard stone floor of the dock.

The Grand Zhool’s face grew dark with rage.

He looked at the cowering form of the wizened greyhound.

“You’ve made me look a fool, Wilkinson.”

Wilkinson looked up at the raging hippo.

“Please, Your Grace . . . not the coat. Anything but that!”

The hippo scowled.

Mabel blinked. His fur coat seemed to be moving. Writhing. Small paws were appearing. Little snouts sniffing . . .

Sniffing for FEAR.

And then something dreadful did happen.

Something very dreadful indeed.

Parts of the fur coat seemed to spring to life, peeling away from the white silken lining. They moved so fast it was hard for Mabel to make out what kind of animal they were—a blur of ripping claws and biting teeth.

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