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he worried. “And all we’ve done is blow up the roof.”

      “It will happen,” said Potty. “We just need to consult Dr Pompkins – Totality Magic again.”

      “Do you think Mr Copperfield reads Dr Pompkins?” asked Monty.

      “Oh yes,” said Potty, sitting down to join him. “We all do. It’s our bible.”

      Esmé sat down with them. “Do you really think you can make the shed disappear?” she asked. “What props did you use for the trick?”

      “A fire extinguisher, a piece of curtain, twenty-four packs of playing cards and a can of lemonade,” replied Potty. “I think the lemonade might have been the issue, don’t you?”

      “Surely,” said Esmé, “the issue was with the fire extinguisher. Has it been safety checked? I think Mum and Dad have had it for ages.”

      Both Monty and Potty looked at each other. “Oh, so that’s what it was,” Potty said, turning to Esmé. “You know, I really hadn’t thought about that until you mentioned it, Esmé, dear. Or maybe there were too many packs of cards.”

      Sensible Esmé gave Potty a knowing look. Surely he knew playing cards had never made anything explode in the whole history of the world. Ever.

      Esmé wondered if the neighbours might complain about the exploding shed, which reminded her of the letter that was still in her pocket.

      “You’ve had something through the post,” she said, handing the envelope to Potty, whose normally pinkish face turned white in an instant.

      “Could it be…” he asked out loud, his one eyebrow furrowed deep.

      Monty trembled. Esmé frowned.

      “... from the council?” asked Potty, trying to open the letter without his hands shaking too much. “I don’t know what I will do if my wonderful shed is shut down. I will have nowhere to create my tricks in peace.”

      *

      Uncle Potty had first hit upon the idea of a magic shed four weeks earlier. It would be a place of his own where he could try out and experiment with his tricks. So when Mr and Mrs Pepper had said he could build it in their garden, he was ecstatic. Monty would be on standby to help him at any time. It was perfect.

      Once it was decided, Potty and the Pepper twins got a bus to the nearest garden centre and spent almost two hours deliberating on the best shed for the job. Some had heating, one came fitted with a plunge pool and another doubled as a noodle stall for rock festivals. In the end, Potty had plumped for a traditional shed with a sturdy front door and had it delivered the next day.

      Esmé and Monty were both thrilled. Surely this was the solution to the problems associated with Potty practising in the house – no more baked beans on the living-room carpet, no more flooded bathrooms or tripping over wands on the stairs.

      And yet... Esmé noticed that even in his own shed, Potty could not help but make either a lot of noise or a lot of mess. He managed to break the door off its hinges on the first day with an energetic silk scarf trick. On the second day, he annoyed the neighbours with a badly played trumpet solo, which he claimed was for an act involving the magic of music. Two local cats joined him and howled in unison, causing the woman down the road to ring the police to complain about the “Lady Gaga Tribute Act”. When Potty tried to make the shed magically transform into an elephant, the noise was such that Esmé had to put her foot down. No more elephants.

      Matters had come to a head a week ago when a small man from the local council called Jeremy, dressed in a tan corduroy suit, with sweatbands round his wrists, appeared at the house and proceeded to read Uncle Potty an official warning.

      “If you continue to cause disruption to your neighbours, you will be fined and most probably taken to court,” he said sternly. “We at the council take these things very seriously because you are causing severe cress to others,” he finished, and looked up from his clipboard.

      “Cress?” asked Potty.

      “Cress to others,” replied Jeremy, wiping his forehead with his left-hand sweatband.

      “Do you mean stress?” asked Monty, peering round Potty’s elbow.

      “Ahem, yes, stress to others,” finished Jeremy, now wiping his forehead with his right-hand sweatband. “This is your final warming. That is, you have been warmed.”

      “Warmed?” asked Esmé, trying not to burst into laughter as Jeremy walked away.

      Although they had chuckled about Jeremy and his warming after his departure, Esmé, Monty and Potty were deeply concerned. Potty was a creative type – he needed to be free in order to invent new, innovative tricks. If he was forced to keep the noise down, he might not be able to do his job; if he was taken to court, they might ban the magic shed altogether.

      Fiddling with the seal, Potty took another few seconds breaking open the envelope. He breathed in slowly.

      “It’s an invitation,” he said at last, with some relief. “‘Mr Henry J. Henry invites the Potty Magician to perform for Her Majesty the Queen at the Grand Royal Opening of Mr Henry’s MEGA-MILLION SUPER MUSEUM in one week’s time. RSVP in person by August the first at the latest.’ That’s the day after tomorrow,” Potty added.

      “Wow,” said Monty.

      “Is it real?” asked Esmé, taking the invitation and examining it.

      “There’s a gold stamp on it,” said Monty, peering over her shoulder. “Of course it’s real.”

      Potty was thrilled – he had made a name for himself after the triumphant show at the Sea Spray Theatre and had received regular bookings ever since. He had even appeared on television a handful of times, including a small slot on Abraca-Deborah – a magic show featuring Pat Daniels and his fragrant wife – performing a trick with a dessert spoon and a toothpick. But on reading this invitation, Potty was happier than he had ever been – he had never dreamed of being asked to entertain on such an important occasion. Every frond of hair leaped up from the top of his head as if his fingers had been stuck in the mains. “I will perform for Her actual Majesty, a royal personage, in real life! It’s a true honour.”

      “In all totality,” added Monty, nodding.

      Potty paused for a moment. “Henry J. Henry – I’m sure I remember that name from somewhere...” He scratched his head and some hair fell on to the floor.

      “I think he was once a member of the International Magic Guys Club. I’m certain that he went by the name of Harry Starfeathers – although he was so clumsy with his props that we used to call him Harry Butterfingers. Well well, if he isn’t a high-flying museum curator these days, working closely with royalty.”

      All problems with the council were, at this point, forgotten. All thought of the accident with the shed roof was put aside too. The Potty Magician was to perform in front of the Queen in a week! Monty started rehearsing what he called his Junior Royal Bow.

      “Come along,” said Potty. “We must decide what trick to perform at the Grand Royal Opening.”

      “What about one-handed tortoise juggling?” asked Monty. “I saw that on an American TV programme once.”

      “No no – too messy,” replied Potty.

      “I liked the trick you did where a playing card turns into flower petals,” said Esmé.

      “Zamiel’s Rose?” answered Potty. “No, the Queen will have seen that one before – it’s been done many times.” He shifted on the grass. “This is not an easy task.”

      “Uncle P, what have we just been doing?”

      “Worrying about the high-explosive properties of lemonade,” said Potty, gazing up at the sky.

      “Before that,” prompted Monty.

      “Trying

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