“I suppose –” Jem turned hopefully to Skye as we walked into school next morning – “you didn’t find your gran’s pencil yet?” Very slowly and sadly, Skye shook her head. I felt so sorry for her. She looked really dejected. “Not even a hint?” Skye seemed puzzled. “What sort of a hint?” “Well, like… a sign, sort of? Like suddenly something tells you to go and look in a certain place, or you suddenly see something and it gives you an idea, or…” Jem’s voice petered out. “That sort of thing,” she said rather lamely. “Dad still thinks it got buried when they built the extension. In which case,” said Skye, miserably, “it’ll be there for ever.” “You don’t actually know that,” I said. “Not for certain.” “It’s the only thing we can think of. We’ve searched and searched all over the place.” “Maybe we should come and help look?” I turned to Jem. “We could do that, couldn’t we?” Jem nodded, brightly. “After all,” I said, “three pairs of eyes are always better than one.
