The dragon tried to dig in his wooden claws, but the tunnel was too slippery with shiny paper and birthday ribbon. He skidded sideways, bumped the tin robot, and sent the crayons tumbling after them in a clattering rainbow avalanche.
“I dislike gravity,” announced the robot. “It has poor manners.”
“Spread your wings!” cried the knitted owl.
“They are decorative!” roared the dragon, which did not stop him from trying.
The fox twisted in mid-slide, his ribbon label snapping against his chest. “Everyone aim for something soft!”
They shot out of the tunnel and landed in a heap on a mountain of torn envelopes, curly bows, and old birthday cards. Above them stretched a cavern beneath the floorboards, lit by moonbeams leaking through cracks. Thousands of gift tags dangled from strings like pale leaves.
On every tag, a name was written.
Elsie. Mum. Uncle Ravi. Grandad. Charlie.
The fox stared at the last one. “Charlie?”
A gasp came from the top of the paper slide.
A boy tumbled out after them, pyjama sleeves flapping, messy brown hair stuck up in wild points. He landed with an oomph, blue eyes wide as marbles.
“You’re alive,” Charlie whispered. Then, because he was Charlie and could never stay whispering for long, he grinned so hard it looked painful. “You’re actually alive!”
The owl hopped forward. “Are you Elsie?”
“No, I’m Charlie. Elsie’s my little sister. It’s her birthday tomorrow.” His face softened. “I wished for the presents to wake up. I didn’t think they’d do it under the hallway.”
“Wishes,” said the robot, “are notoriously imprecise.”
The fox backed away from the hanging tags. “Did you unwrap me?”
Charlie’s ears turned pink. “Only a tiny bit. I wanted to see if the fox had a proper tail. I wrapped you back up perfectly.”
The crayons made a scandalised squeaking.
The frost letters from the clock shivered through the cavern, appearing in the air like breath on glass.
When the thirteenth tick is heard, the first unwrapped must keep the word.
The fox’s stitched grin trembled. “That would be me, then.”
⁂
A soft flame popped into being between two piles of cards. It belonged to a birthday candle no taller than Charlie’s thumb, with wax the colour of custard and a smile that melted at the edges.
“At last,” said the candle. “Someone has broken the paper.”
The dragon lowered his carved head. Smoke curled from his nostrils. “Name yourself, tiny torch.”
“I am Wick, Keeper of the Unblown Wish.” The candle bowed. “And you, dear fox, must guard the word before the clock eats it.”
“What word?” Charlie asked.
Wick’s flame leaned towards him. “The first word spoken by the child who wished too loudly.”
Charlie’s grin vanished. “I said... alive.”
All the tags rustled.
“If the clock takes alive,” murmured the owl, “what happens to us?”
Wick did not answer quickly enough.
From far above came another deep TOCK.
The cavern shook. Tags tore loose and whirled into the darkness. The fox clutched his ribbon label as blue frost crept over his paws.
Charlie ran to him and grabbed the frozen ribbon. “No. He’s Elsie’s present. He belongs with us.”
The word alive glowed silver between Charlie’s teeth, as if he had breathed out a star. The fox snapped it up without thinking.
For one bright second, his button eyes blazed.
Then every tag in the cavern flipped over at once.
They no longer said Elsie, Mum, Uncle Ravi, Grandad, or Charlie.
They all said: MINE.
Wick’s little smile stretched too wide. “Oh dear,” he said. “The clock has noticed you.”
Above them, the floorboards split with a sound like a giant present being opened.
